When Pawns Weep
by Blitzdrake
Summary: In a war of the Divine, Bishops and Knights prepare to clash. Yet the fate of all Creation rests with the Pawns of angels. Can the outcast son of Satan and a tormented half-angel forestall the End of Days? Only in South Park. Damien/Pip Gregory/Mole
1. Prologue: A tale of Two Cities

**Author's Note:** Mostly I'm throwing this in here so that I have a chance to say thank you to the incredible people who helped me get up the nerve to go from avid reader to poster on this site. To TEP my first Beta-Reader, I proffer much love for all the initial advice and for humoring one very nervous little writer-to-be. Also I am tossing out a very grateful nod to Tweekers and Shadow-of-Sins who have admirably taken up the onerous mantle of sorting through the sheer bulk of my initial chapters. Lastly I'm offering a thank you to any of you who are taking the time out of your day to give my overly zealous ramblings a glance. I can only hope this will be as enjoyable for you to read as it was for me to write.

**Warnings: **Violence, Mild-Strong language at times, character death and attempted suicide tie into this plot in very late chapters. I will not ruin the suspense more than that. Beyond the pairings stated in the summary, expect a mix of Het/Slash so if gayness or straightness offends you I suggest we part ways amicably here rather than share in this story of mine. If both offend you…well you must be awfully dull on a date you have my sympathies. Couples will come as they will, and I'll try to keep it a surprise though I can guarantee that Kenny/Butters will rear its adorable head in later chapters.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own South Park or any of its charismatic characters; they belong to Matt Stone and Trey Parker. Likewise many names I have borrowed from Christianity, Hebrew Lore, and Greek Mythology. Obviously I cannot claim ownership of any of that either.

* * *

Mourning the Fallen

Wail when Crowns lay coldly,

And tears soak noble brows.

Praise fallen Church Princes

Now free from earthly vows.

Remember the crumbling towers,

Regret the unsaddled steeds.

For victory they have fallen

So we sing of their deeds.

But not all valor is treasured

When tallying the costs.

So I beg Kings to measure

What is oft carelessly lost.

For who stood to front,

And now in earth sleeps.

Your victory is lessened,

When for Pawns no one weeps

WPW Prologue: A Tale of Two Cities, and the Quiet Mountain Town 

It was the best of times… It was the worst of… I suppose I don't have to tell you how that particular beginning goes. Not that it really fits our story perfectly; it certainly wasn't the best of times at all, not even close. It was point in fact as close as things had ever gotten to the worst of times, as close it could get since the last time the world had nearly ended. To understand how truly bad things were though; I should set the stage for you, by taking you to that place and time of clarity where one could first see the tremulous condition the world lay in. A place where you can grasp for yourself the countless heaps of what ifs, and dangerous maybes that conspired to hold the world at the very edge of the yawning pit of chaos. Speaking of pits of chaos I should start with the state of things, in the Abyss, not the figurative one, but the literal one spoken of in Dante's cherished work.

In the halls of the Inferno, rage and dissent were frothing in a dangerous and fevered mix. This range of emotion was not that necessary castigation of sinners, nor was it the common pulse of hate and negativity that kept the heart of Hell pumping. This was a more determined beat; a thundering of the drums of war, a conflict looming above the heads of the damned souls contained within. This was a war of the keepers and the beasts, the generals and soldiers, the Fallen and the demons. This was a self destructive wave of madness, though if you were to ask any member of the heavenly Host, they'd tell you that such a state was rather normal in the purposeless evil of the place.

Those of the Fallen Host would be a better source of information, having walked and ruled in this dark realm since their fall from Heaven's graces. Those outcasts knew better the difference between the normal discontent of their hellish home in exile, and the new sharp, stabbing fury that was rising against them. The flames glowing now weren't the same mindless blazes of prior eons, but a new insanity, and now the ash and smoke that blanketed the land rose from fires of revolution. The voices of the Demon Princes were slowly unifying, crying out for a return to the old ways, the ways before too bright Morning Star had come crashing into the Abyss, to seize their domain. Lucifer, prideful and arrogant, had for too long polluted their domain of chaos with his Order, and Rules, and Circles. Demons yearned for a time when human souls were the meat and drink of their dark appetites, an endless feast of pain and agony, not the toys and playthings of disgruntled angels.

For several millennia the Fallen Host of Lucifer had ruled over the land, promising to give the demons the one thing they lacked in their chaotic nature, a direction, a goal, unity. For a time they had satisfied this promise, Lucifer and his Fallen, bringing their inherent nature of absolutes and wills to the twisted expanse. Yet the very air of Hell was corrosive to all things constant, and the powers the Fallen now wielded in place of their once divine skills were rooted in corruption, disunity, and disarray. It was enough to try even the most determined of minds…and frankly, Satan just wasn't that determined anymore. Truth be told, he'd been living among the chaotic too long, reacting in the moment, and not to the Plan as he had when he first stormed down, a vengeful and spiteful boy, determined to prove his Creator wrong. Now the purpose was gone, and he was merely a willful child playing godling over his horde of human souls, losing lost touch with the matters above, and around him.

Without his constant assistance to shore up the Fallen, the place had quite literally gone to itself in a hand-basket. The failed assaults first on Earth and then on Heaven, had made matters worse by disillusioning the demons. Even more disastrous the battles alienated Satan from his Fallen, who had refused to take part in either invasion, as long as a Satan allowed mortal lovers to lead. The strength of an angel, in righteous devotion or fallen from grace, is centered in morale, duty, and purpose. The barrier of understanding between leader and Host dulled the morale of both, and the strength of Hell's rulers dwindled in their weakened resolve. In the malaise that spread like a plague through their ranks many of them began emulating their leader, getting caught up in all too "human" concerns and playthings, others simply began to more heavily feel the erosion of chaos on their rigid minds.

Then worse befell the beleaguered realm, the river of souls dried up. There was a time when all but a fraction of the Christian Faith had poured through the Obsidian Gate, each damned soul feeling the weight of the phrase "_Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate_" etched in the hard stone above. "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here," whether or not they could read the ancient Latin words, the crushing darkness ahead, and stench of decay pouring out on scorching winds, was a more effective tool for crushing their spirits than any archaic warning. And that stream of despair, that endless spring of pitiless crushing dismay, had been enough to sate the hunger of the soldiers of Hell, leaving the human souls themselves to pass downward through the circles, to the startlingly banal place laid out as home for them.

Rather than Dante's fields of misery and suffering, they were greeted with crowded slums under the ash and ember sky of the great city, Dis. A well of ennui and boredom it might be, but a city nonetheless, a bastion of civilization for Fallen and damned souls alike. Waiting for them there was a strange mix of Luau Fridays, crazed dictators, officious overseers, pompous greeters, and bored guides. It was a stagnant and petty place, a reflection of its diminished Dark Lord. Of course the design was deliberate, for it provided a steady stream of power for Satan and his host, whether the devotion was granted willingly or not. Those who lived within, dim souls murky and weak as they were, counted as worshippers of a sort, and in eking out their banal existence, they provided the currency of their beings to their host's spiritual resources. Yet this smooth balance had ended when God had cast open the Pearly Gates, removing the Mormon restriction, allowing the bulk of human souls to shift heavenward nearly overnight.

Reaction to change comes only gradually to angels, and the Fallen were slow to grasp the affect the shift would have on their lives. It was the demons who reacted first, rumbles of outrage rising from the Hordes who felt most keenly the pinch of loss when the number of despairing souls dwindled. With noses made sensitive by growling bellies, and eyes sharpened with hunger, the Horde turned toward Dis, the Lower City, the bastion of the Fallen, and more importantly the hordes of delectable human sinners housed within. What started as longing mutters, turned into drawn out pleading, then in the face of unyielding resistance, angry roars of demand. Soon the Fallen found themselves trapped within their own stone city walls, cut off from higher realms by the vast sea of the Hordes once at their command. For the first time since the coming of Lucifer, Hell was raging inward, oblivious to the world outside. The world outside was far less oblivious to the troubles of Hell. Beings of all walks and motives and faiths watched with trepidation fearing the unpredictable outcomes that might arise from this madness. The Fallen were becoming desperate, and last time their hands had been forced, a third of angelkind had violently severed their connection to the Divine, and all of Creation had trembled as leaves in the wake of that storm of wings and blades.

**

* * *

**

Worse than the desperate Fallen and rumbling of demons, was a silence from the Shining City of Heaven itself. For nearly ten years, God had not spoken, absenting himself from the day to day matters of Heaven. For the first time since their creation, the Cherubim and Seraphim faltered in their unending songs of Praise. Golden voiced Gabriel sat forlorn at the feet of the grim faced Thrones, unwilling to speak even a word of command to his Hosts for fear of missing the first utterance of Divine breath that would mark the return of the Creator. The very absence of sound was as unnerving as the steady roar of dissent from Hell. The one who had bound the darkness to the Abyss in his first act of Creation was silent, and those who had most recently ruled the dark things, were now all but trapped in the farthest reaches of that forsaken domain. A deeper terror was settling in across the worlds, a fear of the wildness of the demons that might break free after being so long contained or controlled. In the Silence of God and the Highest Choir, the rumbles of Hell had reached all the way into the Shining City and the proudest of Avenging Angels, felt the tremor of unease when that bass chord of discontent rang out, souring notes on golden harps and trumpets alike. Without Gabriel to aide them, the other three Arch-Angels struggled to stem the chaos and confusion in a city unused to running itself. Throughout the City, angels and the swelling crowd of human souls alike felt the unease of the leaders of the Host, and everywhere pale perfrect hands clenched the air near their belts subconsciously, reaching for weapons that were as of yet still safely stowed away.

Below the halls of Heaven, those beings not belonging to either realm remembered the days of the first Hell, the dark days of Gehenna, when demons roamed free and wild. Those beings waited with trepidation for signs of what was to come. Meanwhile all around them in that middle ground, on the spinning sphere of earth and water, men and women carried on living and dying, loving and hating, waking and sleeping, ignorant to the ripples of cosmic disturbance that might soon crest in a wave to wash their mundane cares aside.

Yet not all the men on the earthen realm were blissfully ignorant, and somewhere in that place of connections, at the most recent crossroad of Heaven and Hell, a simple man paced a sparsely furnished room. In his mind he felt the far off chaos, the dissonance that sounded out clearly in both cities. For years he had anticipated this moment with dread and now perched at the very precipice of great and dark times, he found himself unwilling to commit to a solution. His hand was figuratively hovering over a shivering genie's lamp. He was fearfully aware that there'd be no putting this djinn back in its bottle once unleashed.

With a sudden start, his thoughts were scattered as he stumbled, sandaled feet skipping over a solitary pebble, a tiny obstacle that somehow his steps had missed in each of the countless prior rotations around the room this evening. Reaching down, he picked up the tiny rock, mind still returning to the merits and risks of the actions he debated. Whether it was the cessation of pacing, or the weight of the round lump in his hands, he wasn't sure, but at last his mind settled on a course of action. With a glance down at his hand, he spared a last thought that perhaps this might be the very stone that would start the avalanche that would carry them all over that edge into the abyss beyond. Then with a desire to waste no more time on inaction and regrets, he opened the door of his room to the outside air, and whispered into the wind…

And somewhere in the aether far above the earth, a single angelic being shifted in his isolated perch on the Pearly Gates, disturbed from his tedious and increasingly gloomy inward thoughts, to turn his head into those same winds. Playful gusts pulled golden curls away from eyes as brown as the loam of the deepest forest. Startlingly dark the eyes were, shocking for their strangeness on an Angel's face, a distinction that marked him and his brothers as outcast among the rest of their silvery-eyed kin. The damning eyes squinted in the effort to seek that hint of sound he'd just heard, so out of place and urgent, compared to the roar of wind against golden parapets and the dull throb of demonic discontent. About to give up, he heard it again, a single word, "Gregory," his name, carried across the miles both real and celestial, between the mortal world and the gates of Heaven. Only a few voices could carry that far, and only one would use just his name to call him. Without a thought to his former concerns, or the displeasure that had consumed his mind, he stretched silver wings to azure sky. Arched above him, his feathers caught the ever present light of the Eternal City, and glinted with the proper argent shade of all angel wings, in chromatic defiance of the implied impurity of the chestnut eyes. With a flex of the muscles on his back, the wings hungrily grasped at the air, and thrust great wingfuls of sky downward, lifting his body off the Gates. As he began his descent alone, his ears listened eagerly for the clarion thread of his name that beckoned him ever downward, towards the oblivious earth.

**

* * *

**

Darkness lay thick over the Colorado Mountains, the air as heavy with clouds as the ground was with snow. To the being caught betwixt earth and sky it was hard to discern up from down, with those few stars peaking through cloudy gaps, a mirror to the scattered lights glowing under snowfall's blanket. Well it would have been hard if gravity had not been determinedly reminding him that he was no longer in Heaven, but the solid realm of earth. Relentlessly the force tugged down against the beat of wings unused to such exertions. The journey had been a long one, and the sight of the town below was a welcome vision to the weary Gregory. For a moment he hovered, wings straining to maintain his position against wind and weight. Widened dark orbs gazed down at the patchwork of light and shadow, a foreign map to eyes accustomed to the unwavering light of the Eternal. Still this was not his first journey to the mortal plane and would not likely be the last. With renewed resolve, the flyer shook the strangeness of the place away and prepared himself for the next step of his journey, to seek out the caller from the mass of beings below.

With the same expression as a dog testing for a scent, he closed his eyes against the chilly breeze, and swept his now blind gaze across the vista, feeling for his destination, rather than straining wind dried eyes further. Earthward the traveler stretched his thoughts, towards the tiny sets of lights, packaged boxes of warmth and life. Once settled in to this other "sense," he began to move, spurring himself into flight once again. The winged searcher was blind to the homes now, feeling instead for the souls within. To such senses the landscape beneath was a chaotic mess, far different from the neatly ordered rows of glowing windows evenly spaced apart; a picture of quiet suburbia laid out with such care. From house to house he sought, but there was no rank or file to the brightness of those who lived within. Houses would resonate with sweetness and sourness alike, with no reason or rhyme differentiating the line where good neighbors ended and bad neighbors began.

The jumble of lives was disconcerting for the flyer, who in distaste at what he sensed, shivered as he had not for the cold winds. In a particular house below the twinges of self recrimination were a bitter pill, even in sleep the child within relived the days disappointments and injuries endlessly, while softly muttering "Oh hamburgers," into a worn pillow. His nature urged him to stop and calm the mind that wept even when eyes were sealed and dried, but Duty called ever forward.

It was sometimes exhausting to imagine how even in their sleep humanity carried on dreaming their emotions away, broadcasting a deafening stream of mixed feelings heavenward. Hellward too, he supposed. The stream of self that was the massed aura that clung to a dense population of souls was strong in any town and worse over the cities. Nothing compared to this place, though, this town, nestled so quaintly out of the way in the secluded Rockies. Here the lives were always unnaturally rich with feeling and emotion and subtle under weavings of something more subtle. Here one could feel the lingering touch of Immortals, a stain on the tapestry of the lives below. It was only logical if one considered the towns past; this place had sat at the heart of so much conflict surely it would carry the echoes with it on even the most peaceful nights, and in the deepest sleep.

Suddenly he banked to the right, breaking his peaceful glide, careful not to even pass through the air directly above one particular house. Only after he'd acted on instinct did he feel out to the dwelling, sensing that sleeping within, angry and red, a swollen tick of a soul lay, gorged on the misery of others, unable to find inner peace even in rest. For a moment the stench was so thick he thought he'd passed over a Fallen, or a demon, or one of the other countless beings who existed beyond mortal knowledge, things that hungered solely to inflict misery. The thought was dismissed as quickly as it was summoned. The taste was miserable yes, and left him with the need to gag, but it was not completely devoid of all humanity. Also there was a familiarity to the soul, reminding him of the last time he'd visited this mountain range. A soul like that you couldn't forget, even though he had been in human form then, nearly blind to the flavor of souls when he last met that youth. Still something of the taste and smell of the rancid boy's nature had seeped through even then, and it seemed time had only deepened the rot.

"Eric," Gregory spat with distaste, trying to clear his mouth. A few quick wing beats carried him beyond, but still he temporarily stopped testing the waves of emotion below. He was certain he could afford to halt the search; the one he sought had senses far too finely tuned to peacefully live within a mile of the Cartman boy.

While he tried to out-fly the sensation, he pondered the strangeness of the unforgettable little town and the diverse children he'd met there. Hard to believe he'd survived two months among those mortals. Still there'd been pleasant moments, mortality was an intense thing for all its brevity and limitations, and from that extended time he carried a few good experiences. Unbidden the images of a raven haired girl, several other idealistic children, and an endearingly foul-mouthed heretical French boy flashed through his mind, unsettling his smooth flight. The ghost of a smile still on his lips he thought back on the more pleasant aspects of the craziness that had ensued the last time he'd been summoned here. Fancifully he toyed with the idea of delaying his journey long enough to seek out a few more familiar souls, and perhaps dredge up more fond memories.

Considering his normal duties, even handling something as extreme as preventing Hell on earth was a far happier and lighter time to reminisce on, and it surprised him how quickly he'd let the ever present light of the Eternal, and the opinions of his estranged fellow angels in the Host, drive the thought of the other children from his mind. Once the mess of Hell on earth had cleared up, and Satan had descended once again, he'd fled the intensity and sensations, retreating back to his real Duty. With the swiftness of thought he'd shed earthly friendships along with the mortal body he'd worn so briefly. Just as lightly as he'd left them behind, Heaven itself had washed its hands of this place, at least for the time, and so thankfully had Hell. Not that matters Christian had been the sum and total of the town's troubles, the dead had walked here once he'd been told, and stranger things since had occurred. He occasionally asked after the place when he was among the Host. The town was a beacon to strange beings alien, mortal, and immortal alike and a barometer of matters mundane and ecclestiacal. It was a powder keg, a place where the Balance was so far upset, that the slightest spark could blow everything out of proportion. Why this town had been chosen for such a fate, he wasn't sure, but as to why it was the way it was…the blame rested squarely on the shoulders of the one who summoned him.

His thoughts tracking back to the reason for his visit, the flyer let out a soft sigh. The released breath was caught up in the wind twisting through his golden curls, and carried smoothly back amongst the silver feathers streaming behind. In a cautious, testing manner he reopened his senses to a far more subdued stream of emotional turmoil. Below the landscape had brightened, though the soulscape had dimmed, as his flight had carried him beyond the suburbia to the downtown. Here in the heart of commerce and industry few souls lived, and those that were present now, were mostly leaving bars, their minds drowning in alcohol, and hearts submerged in a stupor that dulled their feelings of contentment or remorse. Quickly moving past the area, still sure that the call originated somewhere ahead, he hit the outskirts of town, where those who could afford no other place lived, their lives so crushed by day to day necessity, that by this time of the day their hearts were feeble, strained, and tired things.

Of course even in the wave of misery and self-pity a few resilient souls stood out, and he felt another familiar boy's mind whisk by beneath. This one was well known to the angel, and indeed to almost everyone in Heaven and Hell. Known as Kenny among the mortals, though he was a second Keanu Reeves in the celestial realm, the divine hero tossed in his sleep restlessly. Perhaps he was plagued subconsciously by the forces that swept so wildly across the celestial plain. Or perhaps his dreams were haunted by some other private misery only God or better yet Death might know. A confused and conflicted life for that one, the flyer mused pityingly. The thread of the poor boy's being had been interwoven into the designs of Heaven and Hell so often he should have left sanity far behind. Just the young man's bad luck that one of the great neutral spirits had taken interest in the madness of this place. With one swift cut on birth, Death had wielded a ghostly sickle in shadowy mimicry of the surgeon's scalpel that fateful day. In one slice, boy was severed from the bindings of mortality as surely as he had been from his mother moments before.

The stigmata of immortality had followed Kenny from infant to boy then young man, forever making him outcast and different from his fellows. What might drive the youth to keep trying to fit in against such odds, the angel pondered, especially with Death as an indifferent master? The flyer knew all too well the discomfort of the black winged soul collector's presence; he'd met him too often in the course of his own Duties. Still if Death wished a piece in this game, it wasn't in the nature of an angel to over ponder such things. Besides if anyone on this plane didn't need the services of this particular angel, it was one who could shrug off death as lightly as cobwebs. The angel moved on with a final sympathetic thought towards Kenny, the penultimate sacrificial pawn. Perhaps the ghost of the sympathy was felt, for if anyone might be sensitive to celestial presences it'd be that boy, and the tossing sleeper calmed, as the shadow of silvered wings passed over his barren room.

At last beyond the edge of town and into the hills and scattered dwellings surrounding it, the flyer found the source of the call. The building might have a solitary window, and only the faintest of light might peek through the shroud of trees around it, but the one within was, to divine senses, glowing like a tiny sun. He could feel the warmth of it as he neared, the sensation filling him in ways no earthly fire could. Futilely the cold wind tried to cut through his simple woven clothes, its touch unfelt by divine flesh, as he hastened his flight into a sweeping dive towards his destination. At the focus of his gaze a radio station antenna rose from the building, a skeletal finger of ice and iron, beckoning downward.

With one last tired flap, he straightened out weary wings and glided past the antenna down towards the shoveled sidewalk, not noticing how the surface glistened treacherously in the weak light. At the end of his journey at last, his tired senses gave way to an oversight as he misjudged the speed of his descent, and the earth rose too quickly in welcome. With a bone jarring crunch he landed. His motion continued forward into a stumble that turned into a slide and then a crash across slick black ice into a piled snow bank. A grimace plastered his face as he attempted to disentangle wings from limbs to stand, while muttering to himself, "Brimstone and Ashes! Gregory, you know how to make an entrance don't you. That one would have made Michelangelo consider painting us as clowns on the chapel ceiling." Unbidden the angelic youth quoted an old flying teacher's lesson, "Angels are doves, grace and poise, to descend on a spot, not albatrosses, to crash and slide, to flap and flop!"

Behind him a soft chuckle laced out, full of sympathy and amusement both, as from the doorway a voice spoke, "I don't think I ever heard them use that one, and here I thought I was versed in all the Proverbs. Must be one they only use among you flyers."

A flash of crimson quickly crossing his face, the angel Gregory realized the entire incident had been watched. Of course, he belatedly contemplated; the one who called him would have certainly sensed his arrival, probably before Gregory had even reached the city limits. With a studied attempt to rectify his just lamented lack of poise, Gregory turned to address the speaker, attempting to end the ungainly turning with the faintest of courtly bows, an action that was hampered by wings now heavy with dampness. The combination of motions and counter balancing actions served only to unsettle him further, and his sandals flew out beneath him, gripping the ice poorly. The bow ended in a headfirst tumble that dispelled the shreds of dignity he'd tried to summon up.

The speaker took sympathy and crossed the sidewalk to him, surely and steadily walking across the ice, even though he moved on feet equally ill equipped. A tint of envy darkened Gregory's eyes for the ease with which the other traversed the distance. Of course, his mind rationalized, after walking on liquid water, the frozen variety was probably fairly easy for the approaching man to maneuver on. With only a minimum of fuss, and a few quick motions, the speaker steadied Gregory, and once sure of the angel's balance, stepped away allowing room for wings to be folded.

Summoning up dignity yet again, Gregory addressed the source of the towns near two decades of unrest and madness. The man whose very presence tipped the scales of Balance so far that anything and everything could and did happen in South Park. "You called for an angel, My Prince of Peace?"

With a sigh that spoke volumes on his opinion of that mode of address, Jesus matched Gregory's dignity with a look of combined frank directness and humility that he'd trademarked against ancient Kings and Emperors over two millennia ago, "I'm glad you decided to come Gregory, though seeing as you were nice enough to answer my request I think we can skip this business of titles. Especially since, Angelos Custos Protego ex ego Vulnero, is a bit of a mouthful for me to call you by." Chuckling at the absurdity, Jesus continued, "Besides that, no one around here uses Lamb of God, or Everlasting Father, or any of the other countless titles save the one priest in these parts. I find the familiarity part of this places charm, and the long winded names part of Father Maxi'ss lack of charm. All things considered, I figure if anyone has earned the right of me to not use that form of address it'd be one of your kin."

For the second time that night, a flush marred the near perfect features, as Gregory responded, some hint of shame and his earlier dark thoughts on the Pearly Gates sneaking into his voice:

"No one calls us that up there, it's mostly the Half Wings, or Vulnerable Ones, if they have to talk to us at all My Lord. Sorry I mean your lordship, er…sir…er…J-Jesus."

"The Vulnerable Ones? I'd have thought they'd just call you all Guardian Angels like the real ones. I wouldn't have thought the Host could have found the time or creativity to think up new nicknames with all the singing and praising and ordering of the Universe to be done. Or is it something the lesser angels use…" Jesus paused a moment waiting for a sign of assent from Gregory. The silence was confirmation enough, and he continued. "If so, I wouldn't let it bother you, their comprehension of anything beyond the divine and their place in the games of Thrones and Dominions is laughably dim. If they understood what your kind had to deal with, Gregory, believe me they'd be more respectful. Still that would require thought and empathy…and neither part of their nature. Be thankful such is part of yours. You know how the Shining City is," the statement was greeted with an irritated nod from Gregory, and Jesus noted the reaction with a satisfied smile.

"Things never progress there," Jesus continued, "it took them a thousand years to realize that the days of the New Testament would be different from the days of floods, salt pillars, and brimstone. It's only natural for one like you to feel out of place there. Even with the Mormon restrictions gone, and the influx of new people, I guess that place is always going to resist change," Jesus finished sadly.

"Is that why you stay down here, even with the risk to the Balance?" Gregory queried, before the audacity of his question struck him, and he dropped his head. Quickly he stumbled over an attempt to mitigate his rude query, "Not that I'm q-q-uestioning your decisions, my lo—Jesus. It's just that well…you being here does sort of…change the place...a little," he finished lamely, speaking more to his sandals than the savior.

With a grimace Jesus finished for the angel, "And that change is not always for the good you'd imply if you weren't so well mannered. I suppose Hell hasn't tried to surface anywhere but here in the past few hundred years, let alone the rest of the mess this place goes through." Jesus admitted this with chagrin while pondering his response.

The question of his presence here was a difficult one, and the savior himself had considered it often, wondering what instinct guided him to this time and place. Still he was more than willing to try and answer the question, the boldness and initiative, were part and parcel of the reason he'd commissioned this new breed of angel and mortal soul, after his ascension. He'd relied heavily on the Vulnerable Ones, a fitting nickname if chosen for all the wrong reasons. They were a useful aide compared to the robotic and rule-bound Host, primarily for their willingness to change and feel, though also for their ability to move within both worlds. This lad in particular had been of much use over the centuries, most recently in his help with the messiness of Satan's last attempt to unleash Hell on earth during that American-Canadian War a decade prior.

"I suppose," Jesus began slowly searching for the appropriate words, "you have to understand that as long as there are scions, if one of us is on the earth, myself or the son of Satan, wherever we go there's going to be unrest. It'd be even worse if both of us are in the same general area. At least if I stay in one place, the rest of the world is kept relatively peaceful. Besides, it's too late for me to leave and expect this place to snap back to normal; surely you've felt the lives down there."

Jesus again waited for a response, making sure Gregory's attention was fully on him. Hearing the implied question, Gregory raised his head and acknowledged the statement with a nod of ascent.

"My presence," Jesus continued, "has marred an entire generation of children born after I felt Damien's conception and descended. Demons, Host, Fallen, and Neutral spiritsalike, everyone's got their stakes on someone down in that town, and it's my fault for choosing to leave Heaven and come back among the mortals.

"Not that it just stops with me," Jesus's voice took on a lecturing tone now, "Things have been picking up pace since the second millennia's change, and I don't think we've seen the worst of it just yet. Hell's on the brink of a civil war between the demons and the Fallen. My Father's gone silent, as have the Thrones, Seraphim, and Cherubim. The Second Choir argues and dithers over what to do with Heaven and beyond, while the Arch-Angels are divided on the affairs of man. Gabriel just sits there waiting patiently, ears tuned out to anything but the absence of the Voice, while the other three disagree during a time of Peace, a thing unheard since the City was created. The one thing I'm sure of is, that the last thing any angel up there wants is the half-mortal, half-divine upstart scion coming back up to toss around Free Will and mortal impatience to make their indecision even worse. Heaven and Hell are boiling over, and I don't think I could just stand around up there watching it go down through cloudy mirrors. Perhaps more serious, I think the Fallen are enacting some desperate plan to keep a hold on Hell, and they've always been resourceful. Whatever that plan is it must surely involve Damien, and what involves him is most certainly a concern for me. "

Each use of Satan's spawns name sent a shiver of dismay down Gregory's spine, and the gloom and doom predictions were quickly casting a shadowy pall over his expressive face. Jesus decided to end that vein of thought with a lame joke, and some mild encouragement rather than continue haranguing the weary angel.

"Still don't you worry too much, I have plans too, and how could I not…remember who my father is. Grand designs run in the family."

A weak chuckle escaped Gregory, and Jesus realized it'd probably be best to move onto more practical matters, a busy hand was one with no time to worry. With one last look at the sleeping South Park below, Jesus turned and motioned to the door.

"Come inside, Gregory, we have much to talk about, and not all of its bad. There's a lot of good in that town, you should remember that from the last time. We just have to keep this place from falling apart. As you already know too well what befalls South Park for ill or good tends to get magnified and impact the rest of the world. With your help things might work out well for everyone, above and below. All it's going to take is a little ingenuity, a little hope, a little luck...and I suppose it's silly for me to have to point it out to an angel but…a little faith."


	2. Ch 1: Of Hell and High School

**A/N: I felt I should probably post the first true chapter a little early so you could all properly judge the tone most of the story would take. For the most part expect chapter P.O.V.s to rotate between Damien and Gregory, though certainly where needed other characters will get their time in the sun. For those who broke my review-cherry, thank you very much! And of course...love to my Betas.  
**

* * *

"I'm not concerned about all hell breaking loose, but that a PART of hell will break loose... it'll be much harder to detect." George Carlin

WPW Chapter 1: Of Hell and High School 

_Another beautiful day in Hell,_ the teen thought sarcastically, jaded observation matching his expression, as he took in the macabre landscape through the filthy and warped pane of glass that served as a window. For a studied moment Damien focused a single heartfelt wish to be somewhere else, anywhere else but here trapped in a stuffy room, in the stuffier bowels of Hell. A cough from the other side of the room, diverted Damien mid wish, and he turned away from the glowing red orifice, to focus on his most unpleasant observer.

"Something out there more interesting than the nature of celestial bodies Damien," his lecturer queried in a tone equally expressing derision and irritation.

"What could be more interesting than defining the faces of the moon, and their influence on enchantments?" Damien chose his words deliberately to mock his overbearing teacher, yet their sarcasm was only half-meant.

The truth was that as boring as it could be learning the nature of a celestial body not even visible in Hell, the view out the window of the static dim city grinding away in its endless cycle of tepid un-life wasn't much of an improvement. It was just something different, and slightly more enjoyable than a full four hours staring at his dried up stick of a teacher, while silently counting down the minutes till lecture ended.

That dried up stick heard the sentiment behind the words, but didn't bother to rise yet to the half-hearted challenge. The upstart boy was itching for a fight, but his instructor saw no need to immediately satisfy that desire. Rising to the bait would just mean shouting, arguments, and eventually fake apologies on both sides later, under the watchful eyes of the boy's overseer, Penemue. There were other methods of fighting back with less risk of repercussion and he chose the most malicious one available, homework.

"Very well then if the topic holds such an interest to you perhaps after the lesson you'd like to stick around and write an essay for me detailing the eight phases and their specific affect on the strengths of demonic and divine spells?"

Outrage widened Damien's eyes as he saw his precious free time threatened. Normally dark crimson irises flared briefly with inner fire and his pale complexion reddened slightly to match.

"You can't do that, it's…it's not fair! The recently deceased are arriving soon, that's about the only NEW thing that ever happens around here! I promised Cer I'd take him out to scare them a little!"

"I'm sure there will be plenty of more terrifying greetings being arranged for them, than a spoiled princeling and that _thing_ you play with. Dis was built to be inexorable, it ran well enough before your birth, and things will go on quite well with or without you precious presence mucking things up for the day," his teacher responded, a sneer on his face the only sign of his internal gloating at striking home so well.

"You can't talk like that to me," Damien warned, rising from his seat to lean forward over his desk. One hand balanced on the ebony surface of the stone table, the other was clenching and releasing at his side in poorly hidden frustration. "I'm the son of Satan! My father wouldn't stand for it!"

"Wouldn't stand for it?! That's rich! He wouldn't stand for exactly what?" the Fallen angel countered maliciously raising one delicate hand in demonstration.

"He wouldn't stand for the implied slight I made to a son he doesn't even bother to interact with? Or perhaps wouldn't stand to be bothered by something as simple as me setting his brat straight? Or he wouldn't stand for you yet again dodging your responsibilities? Or he simply wouldn't stand for anything, because he was too busy being bent over on his back by his mortal toy of the week?"

Each verbal jab was punctuated by a lifted bony finger as his teacher marked off his points.

"Do you want to go chase him down and find out if your father has time to waste on the disappointing fruit of his loins? Please entertain me and go crying for Daddy to save you from your responsibilities." At last satisfied, his instructor leaned back and prepared to enjoy the aftermath of his damaging barrage.

Each point scored home, and Damien flinched with each finger's rise. Damien's free hand had left distractedly left his side now, to run through tangled and unruly onyx hair, twisting his fingers to comb the mess straight from the crown of his head to the tips near his ears. He wrestled with his thoughts while doing this, trying to calm the anger long enough to find a sufficiently effective response to the insults. Still the grain of truth laced in each point was salt in his emotionally bare wounds. Damien's struggle for a verbal response to throw in the face of his gloating teacher was a quickly lost battle. In this contest of wits he was far outmatched, the Fallen Host had spent their immortal lifetimes raising the exploitation of weaknesses in others to an art form. Damien's seventeen years of sheltered isolation were poor preparation against one of their number. Giving up at last, Damien released a grunt of singed pride and decided to escalate the fight to a plane he felt more proficient in.

The free hand at last left his hair and extended, clenching into a fist. A film of fire coalesced around the threatening appendage, red and orange ropes of flame coiled and twisted with a life all its own an inch above his skin.

"I don't need my Dad to defend me," his finally found a suitable reply and proffered it in an ominous tone, "I can handle myself well enough."

His teacher was about to unleash another long rehearsed string of dispersions on the unlikeliness of that particular topic, when the door to the tower smashed open, catching student and teacher in surprise. Into the midst of the argument walked the two Fallen angels for whom all of Dis, save Satan himself would give way. Azazel and Penemue strode into the room mid conflict themselves, two Fallen so equal in power and devotion to Lucifer, and yet as different as day and night. Their own words were quickly choked back, as they took in Damien's blazing fist, as well as his teacher's smirking expression, in a single shared glance.

Azazel was a perfect example of an Avenging Angel, average in height for one of the Fallen, though he seemed larger than his six feet with broad shoulders and massive arms framing his body. His face was chiseled but locked in a permanent scowl, strengthened by the square steely jaw that loomed over a tree trunk of a neck. Beside him Penemue appeared the smaller, though he stood nearly head and shoulders above his Azazel. Penemue was a near match to Damien's instructor in his frame, all angles and slim lines. Even his face held a sharp raptors nose, and pencil thin mouth. About the only things the right and left hand of Satan had in common were the obsidian wings, shoulder length straight black hair, and granite grey eyes that were at this moment participating in twin expressions of stern disapproval.

Penemue, as Damien's overseer, was fully aware of the daily schedule, as well as the enmity between teacher and pupil, so he was perhaps the least surprised of all four within the room. Armed with this knowledge he was the first to react, breaking the awkwardness by tossing out a casual and deliberately bland, "My, my ,my."

The words echoed in the silence before Penemue continued, now certain of everyone's attention.

"I don't recall the nature of the moon being this charged and exciting a topic. Clearly there have been some changes to the curriculum since the last time I reviewed it. Perhaps we should let Sariel finish this lecture before interrupting Azazel?" The last was said with a casual turn of his head to include his companion.

Spurred by the question Azazel, recovered next from the shock and merely grunted out a terse reply, "This can't wait. Our business is most pressing Penemue, you know this."

Penemue nodded his agreement, "Sariel," he glanced at Damien's instructor, allowing a hint of disdain to creep into his voice, "You're dismissed. We have need of Damien's time."

Damien spared a moment to gloat at Sariel's hurried departure, before Penemue's heavy gaze turned to him. In an instant the blaze licking at his fist banked out, and Damien wasn't entirely sure if he or Penemue was responsible for the fires rapid snuffing. Sullenly he lowered both hand and head waiting for the lecture that must surely come. Unwilling to brave his guardian's eyes, Damien became absorbed in studying his shirt, a tattered black tunic. It was sleeveless of course, only the Fallen walked around Hell with absolutely no care for the heat. As the silence thickened he subconsciously squeezed himself into a smaller target, long arms tight against his adolescent frame. The arms, though lengthy and stretched for his height, were built more like Azazel than Penemue. Unlike the warrior, his muscles were not thick knots of rope, but wiry cords twined tightly on the biceps above each elbow. Thin fingers graced slender hands, and slipped easily into dark black pants, as Damien's body continued the futile act of trying to shrink in on itself into nothing, braced for the expected diatribe on proper behavior and responsibility. All in all the sight was rather pitiable to Penemue, the Fallen who took the most active interest in the well being of the boy. A wave of disappointment swept Penemue, at both Damien's continued refusal to take his studies seriously and the quickness with which he was wilting before the Fallen, all fight gone out him.

Damien's ears perked up with surprise when he heard Penemue release his breath as an unexpected and weary sigh of regret.

"I suppose you are right, Azazel," Penemue skipped the lecture entirely, and turned to the Fallen with whom he had entered. "There is no sense keeping him here any longer. It might be best for all parties if we went ahead with your proposal."

Now thoroughly off balance Damien's head shot up in surprise, to meet Azazal's piercing and judging stare, a look that always seemed say in no uncertain terms, that everything the angel saw fell short of his expectations. The fact that Azazel directed this sentiment at all of the world and not purely Damien, was lost on the boy. He felt twin stabs of envy and shame as he looked up at the two angels. It was an unenviable position to be surrounded every day by beings who strove for and lived within perfection, displaying endless patience and absolute grace in every act. Worse when one was a teen stuck in that awkward stage of life where one's own body betrayed you, growing uneven. At such a time even the simple task of walking became a game of dodging invisible obstacles and tripping half-steps.

His weighing observation complete, Azazel further compounded Damien's consternation with his next words: "Indeed. Hard to believe sometimes the boy's got the blood of the Morningstar in him with that small stature. Let alone the moodiness and strange sullenness. The boys not going to suddenly start acting like he's descended of the Prince of Darkness, if you keep him cooped up in these towers. Somewhere in there he's got to have all the Pride of his father and certainly he has some of the fiery spirit, but none of the experience and restraint to temper it with. He knows he's ready for something new, fledglings are always most restless before their first flight."

Damien felt each of the unintentional slights in Azazel's words and self consciously his hands came together as he rubbed his thin wrists, while his back tensed. His slim shoulder blades, depressingly wingless, contracted towards each other.

Ever observant, Penemue, caught Damien's motions, and understood the underlying distress. Unlike Azazel he directed his words to the boy rather than over him, "Yes perhaps this isn't the right atmosphere for you Damien, and..." Penemue's gaze drifted out the same window Damien had been looking thorugh earlier, though his eyes did not glance down but outward to the high walls of Dis and the demon hordes beyond. Lips thinning in distaste he finished his interrupted thought, "And perhaps it won't be the safest place much longer either. Very well Azazel, I yield the point in full. Go tell Satan I've agreed with your assessment. He'll be in his bedchamber at this hour I'm sure."

It was Azazal's turn to grimace and in a grumbling voice he complained, "He's found a new toy? I'd thought I might finally get him to inspect the walls today, the atmosphere of Hell isn't exactly conducive to any longstanding structures, and I could use the help reinforcing them."

"At least he no longer lets the toys play at ruling, be happy for that much," Penemue countered, though his tone expressed undertones of agreement, and equal distaste.

Damien squirmed at the casual discussion of his father shamefully ignoring the defenses and needs of the city for his sexual pleasures.

Penemue called on his of course 'perfect' memory for detail, "Still the new one— its name is Steven, if such things matter— is a bashful one. If you act quickly, you could catch them mid foreplay, before Satan is too caught up. It would surely spoil the mood of his pet for the day. Satan won't be fit company for your wall inspection or for anyone else for the day, but it will free up his schedule for a few hours. Just make sure you prepare an escort for Damien before you and Satan inspect the city defenses. If we're to do this let us be done with it this day before things beyond the walls get any worse."

Azazel might have bristled at the implied tone of command from one who was technically his equal, if he wasn't busily digesting the information provided. In a quite impressive act of facial contortion, his mouth managed to look even grimmer, a feat Damien would have thought impossible if he had not just witnessed it. The angel girded himself for the unpleasantness ahead and walked out the door as a man going to an execution chamber.

In the serious silence of Azazel's departure, Penemue returned his piercing gaze to his charge, his sharp beak of a nose and rustling wings giving him the appearance of a falcon studying a squirming mouse. "So young Damien, you caught all of that I trust?"

_Too much of it,_ Damien thought uncomfortably, and his inflection was flat with sullenness, "I'm being moved out of the Towers. I can guess that much, but what else was there to catch? Unless you mean my dad's sexual habits or the fact that as bad as he's acting, I'm still somehow an even bigger disappointment for not being enough like him or the rest of you."

Penemue recognized the signs of a moody Damien, and decided to head it off quickly. Once in full pout, a sullen Damien was hard to talk too, usually because talking involved one-sided conversations carried across a locked door, over loud glaring music. Situations like that, attempting to coax a teenager out of a black mood by giving a pep talk from a hallway where all who might pass by could observe, were terribly embarassing breaches of dignity for the ancient Fallen.

"None of that now, darkling," Penemue decided to use an old pet name even if only to nettle the growing youth with irritation, "I personally think you being not enough like your father is a good thing."

Whether it was the nickname or the clearly earnest sentiment, Damien snapped out of his self-pity almost instantly. As was said before, the Fallen are skillful artists when it comes to playing the emotions of others though Penemue preferred to work such on Damien only when absolutely necessary. The boy was not a fool for all his apparent disinterest in the world around him, and Penemue had no desire to earn the boy's resentment should he be caught in his deft manipulations.

"Things will certainly be more exciting for you I think." Penemue offered first the information he knew would most please the boy. "Azazel has proposed to your Father, that it might be best if you and Satan weren't in the same place with all the trouble lately. He wants to move you someplace far from this mess, rather than keep all our eggs in one basket, as the mortals say. Earth, I believe is the destination he had in mind."

The last traces of dark mood gave way as Damien's face lit in an uncharacteristic grin. Clearly excited he issued forth a torrent of questions as quickly as they entered his mind: "Earth, as in sun and snow and air and trees earth? I'am going to get to visit the surface? They'll allow me to pass beyond the Obsidian Gate? No more lessons or lectures?"

"Yes, yes, technically you always have been, and no," Penemue responded truthfully to the barrage.

Damien paused a moment, trying to remember the order of his own hastily presented questions, and trace down that final no. "I'm still going to have lessons on Earth?! You're sending me up with Sticks-for-Bones aren't you?!"

Damien could already feel the brief good mood fading under visions of how much worse his teacher would be with the actual celestial bodies visible in the sky. He would spend all night forcing Damien to ponder their motions. The moon was bad enough, but at least it only had 8 phases. The countless lessons on stars had gone on for what seemed like forever, consuming six months of his life in tedium. Damien wasn't sure he would ever look up at a night sky and not feel the agony of wasted hours spent memorizing constellations and the signs and incantations that depended upon this pinprick of light or that one for potency.

"He has a name Damien—Sariel—and he really is one of the most knowledgeable teachers below Heaven, on the arts of the night. But to calm your fears, no, there won't be any Fallen up there. We are most certainly not capable of keeping a low profile. The second a black feather touched blue sky, the blazing eyes of the Dominions would seek us out. As long as the forms are being maintained, the neutral powers won't abide a full-blooded angel of either Host to physically walk the earth in anything but a spiritual form."

The response temporarily drove out worries of lessons, by a more pressing question. "But why won't they mind me? I mean I know they didn't before, while Christ was there, but when Dad threw the match for Earth, I had to go back down too? Didn't I?"

Penemue's face was all smug satisfaction as he answered. "Technically, Damien, but technicalities can be worked around with enough leverage and we have some here thanks to Jesus."

The name struck a sour chord in Damien's mind. In Hell he was an unwelcome pain in the ass or disappointment to most of the Fallen Host, while his opposite, if the Bible was to be trusted, was escorted from chamber to chamber of the Shining City by flights of adoring angels. His admiring subjects probably laid out a path of rose petals for him to walk on and washed the path behind him clean with tears of joy. All while composing hymns of praise for the son of God. He had seemed normal enough to Damien the first time they'd met, but even then all the adults had spent their time kissing his ass, while Damien had been forced to earn every inch of respect he could claim from the children.

Penemue caught the shift, and rightly guessed at the reason for Damien's discomfort, but felt no need to enlighten Damien to the true nature of Christ's own unwelcome presence in Heaven. Penemue might respect the heavenly scion for his particular brand of cunning and acumen, but he was also by virtue of his birth an opponent of the Fallen. Penemue saw no reason to go out of his way to build a point of mutual sympathy between the sons of God and Devil. Instead he expounded on his own brand of genius in the solution to the Damien on earth problem:

"Christ didn't ascend after the fight so the Balance never fully righted itself. Then in the disastrous attempt to seize earth a few years back, I caught the hint of some meddling that was most definitely divine in nature. I have in the time since done some investigating. Christ has apparently been employing half-angels, cobbled together with human souls that allow them to take on mortal form and walk almost undetected among the earth. It's ingenious really they are virtually undetectable probably from the composite blending of corporal human soul with—"

The words grew longer and Damien found himself lost in detailed explanation of divine alchemies and schemes. All he could make out around the buzzing of nonsense was that Jesus was still on the earth, and had found a way to sneak angels in to help him. That and apparently he was walking around actually being Jesus, no hiding, no cloaking his presence. Then as Penemue finished he caught something in the string of weighty words that he did understand. Something that made dreadful and terrible sense.

"Did you just say no one would find me only if I didn't use my powers? And only as long as I'm close to Jesus?" Damien cut through the long winded explanation angrily, his face twisting in a scowl. "No powers?! You're going to send me to the surface with nothing to defend myself? And I have to go back to South Park?!"

"As I just said," Penemue repeated himself testily, "Anonymity is the best defense we can afford right now. You go up and start tossing around sparks, and it would turn into a race to see who could get to you first the Host of Heaven, or the Horde's of Hell. The only place where you could hide is near someone who casts a big enough shadow, and I'm afraid that only leaves Christ."

"I'm not afraid of them; I shouldn't have to hide like some coward!" Trickles of smoke rose from Damien's fingertips. He resisted the urge to demonstrate just how strong he was, knowing it would not impress Penemue, and might do his argument far more harm than good.

Penemue raised one eyebrow at the foolishness of that statement and the infantile streamers of smoke. He jabbed one elegant finger out the window forcing Damien's face to move and take in the city walls and their prior words about the threat that lay beyond.

Deadly seriousness laced the angel's next words:

"I know you're not half as unobservant about what's going on around you as you pretend to be boy. You really don't want one of those Demon Princes getting it in his thick head that you'd make an excellent bargaining chip or snack depending on whichever fancy struck it first. As for the heavenly Host, they might not directly harm you, but I doubt you'd find an eternity of imprisonment an improvement over the current state of things."

Damien bowed his head in defeat, and Penemue let the sympathy he felt at last creep into his voice.

"I'm afraid the best solution is to just pretend to be a normal young man. Which by the way is why you'll still have lessons. I believe all mortals your age are expected to be taking some form of mass education right now. High school, they call it."

"So that's it?! I finally get out of here and you're sending me to high school, and its going to be in South Park." The last Damien muttered with resignation. _All this time hoping to get out of here, and it finally happens and their just moving me to a Hell with a different name._


	3. Ch 2: A Mask of Clay

**A/N: **Thanks to those first reviews! It was very wonderful! This should provide the first true Gregory chapter. Do Enjoy.

* * *

"The Lord God formed man of the dust of the ground." Genesis 2:7

WPW Chapter 2: A Mask of Clay 

The sun rose, a crimson tinted sphere breaking over the shadowy horizon, to cast the snow bleached mountainsides in a slow moving wash of rose and gold. It was that rarest of dawns, no clouds, no haze, just a sky changing from violet to blue inch by inch providing nothing to detract from the slow artistry of the solar body as it painted sky and landscape below. When the simple beauty of daybreak expressed itself this elegantly, poets would weep for want of pen and paper, painters would curse their lack of foresight for failing to bring a brush on a morning such as this, and cameras would try in vain to capture it all in a single shot yet lose the greater picture.

Gregory could understand such a feeling, of both fleeting wonder and the sheer inadequacy one felt at being unable to capture or contain something so precious. There was a certain poignant transience to the view, each moment erased by the next slow step of color that begged for it to be immortalized and shared. Sunrises were a magical thing, a recurring miracle hearkening back to the very first dawn, when a lonely creator had called forth light, filling the black expanse of nothing. Gregory liked to imagine that when the call had echoed into the void, that it was a sight like this that had answered God. Perhaps the same desire to share it had been the impetus for the creation of angels, beasts, and man all the things God had loosed upon the world. Was this why the newest child and the most ancient spirit could both look up at a rising sun and feel the collective need to pause and savor in the wonder? That collective emotion was when Gregory felt the most at peace between his two halves, thus it was always before a sunrise when he chose to shed his wings for human form.

So with eyes on the horizon and wings stretched behind, polished feathers catching light for once instead of air, he bent down to thrust a single hand through the snow, reaching for the frozen earth below. Pale fingers caught up a small handful and lifted it to his chest. There he cupped both hands around it, squeezing it tightly to warm the material. The human half of the soul within him quivered in response to the nearness of the very stuff from which the first man had been born. Then the change began.

His wings folded against his back, resting a moment fully contracted before folding inward impossibly further. They slipped through the skin of the shoulder blades as if falling through a liquid film. They receded until only their memory remained a shadowy impression of wings, twin feathery tattoos etched in silver ink upon an otherwise smooth back. Already feeling the discomfort and balance shift from the loss, he literally plunged headfirst into the ritual lowering his face to his upraised and now dirt covered palms.

From the dust of the earth was man formed, so the writings say. Yet just what kind of 'dust' man was formed of has been a debate of scholarly passion for the ages. In the older texts, the Hebrew word used, "aphar," also refers to mud, earth, ashes, powder, and clay to name but a few. Countless lifetimes had gone into the pursuit of just what form of dust was the stuff which the very bones of man had been molded from. Centuries of debate and argument might have been spared had just one of those scholars had an opportunity to pose the debate to Gregory or one of his half-angel kin. Not that they were present at the forming of man, indeed their existence in the scale of the divine was relatively short, not yet a full millennium having passed since Jesus first gave form to his idea for a new breed of angel. It was not their memory they would draw upon to answer the question, but the physical experience they endured every time they shifted forms. There was a definite name for the substance that they could feel settling over them invisibly. So what kind of dust then, if one chose to believe Genesis as Gregory most certainly did, was man created from?

Clay would be the answer, thick and heavy, viscous and hard, the wettest of the still firm earths. Ash was too light, powder brushed off too easily, and dirt might cover you, but never cling so thickly. Nothing but a mask of clay compared to the feeling of putting on a mortal body, like wrapping oneself in a blanket of stickiness that clung to and coated every inch of you. What else but clay could so suddenly change from a slimy film to constricting shell? Just like the ceramics when they begin to dry, his skin would shrink somehow closer and stiffer, wrapping his spirit in a suffocating embrace. To sum the feeling up as an unpleasant tightening, would be like describing a ride down a slide made of sandpaper as awkwardly rough. The statement would be wholly truthful, but woefully insufficient in scale.

The claustrophobic sensation of being trapped by one's body wasn't the only thing to detest about the transition. There were also the senses, or more accurately the loss of them. Even as the glorious upwelling of vibrant colors birthed around him under a brightening sky, his own view seemed to darken, as if daybreak was occurring in reverse. The human eye might be a wonder of chemistry and biology, but the visible light spectrum and short range of depth it was restricted to could not compare to the vast layers of detection and color afforded divine perceptions. If he'd had the personal experience to make the connection, he'd compare it to putting on dark sunglasses in a dimly lit room where half of what one is seeing fades into an indistinguishable blur of shadows and half formed things.

Yet there were things to be missed more than sight; the loss most keenly felt being that ability to taste with a glance the raw vintage of emotional wine that was constantly pressed from the grapes of the human soul. No more could he be granted sure understanding of the beliefs and feelings of those nearby, now he would be bound to a combination of confusing body actions, easily misleading words, and the faintest trickles of feeling he could still sense. It was frightening to make your way more by instinct and intuition than the certainty that all sane beings crave.

All in all being mortal was a dismal thing, though Gregory tried not to let that cloud his opinions of his human charges. He was quite proud of the fact that he usually succeeded, if he discounted his feelings during the actual change. Not so easy to be kind in thought when he had to deal with the restrictions placed on this body and fend off the upwelling of unrestrained emotions, physical sensations, and discomforting constant tug of mortality. The last was the worst; mortality was a lightly knotted rope pulling you ever downward towards the grave as surely as the earth pulled you to its cold tight bosom. During this time charity was not a virtue present in his thoughts, though he would always regret his disgust later. Still only one being was expected to be truly perfect, so he gave himself leave for his thoughts to express themselves in a manner rather not in keeping with angelic virtue.

_How they can bear this day after day, year after year is inconceivable. It's a no wonder they act half mad at times, rushing and acting so rashly. They should be glad their lives are so short_, _and that they don't get stuck with this mess in the afterlife_, Gregory pondered as he attempted shrug off a tickling sensation in his arms and legs. The sensation of course did not stop so with irritation he rubbed the newly sensitive skin on his limbs. Under his hands sparse strands of near invisibly light blonde hair had sprouted and now reacted playfully with a passing breeze. A few moments in that breeze caused more pressing concerns than a light tickle, as a chill entered the naked human being that now stood alone below the dawning sky. _Ugh...Why did He make the cold….I truly detest this feeling…I'd forgotten how bloody…"cold" it was!_

He rubbed harder, frantic to bring warmth to his skin, yet he was unable to warm skin faster than the cold air would make some other region intolerably chilled. With a sigh of irritation Gregory reached down to the pile of clothes that lay at his feet, rushing what was usually the only enjoyable part of the process of becoming mortal. The clothing of course, had appeared the moment his transition had begun, placed there by his now invisible fellows as he had done for them countless times before. Now that he was blind to his half-angel kin, he would see no more certain signs of them till he had finished his Duty; such was the way it always went. Thus putting on the clothing was normally a slow process, meant to be a drawn out goodbye between brothers, a final reminder of their support in his endeavors.

It was rushed of course, because this time his irrational need for a sunrise caused him to take naked human form on a mountain slope in the Rockies surrounded by the knee deep snow of early September. At times like this it was possible to regret being so habit bound, as he now had no time for whispered "thank you"s to the empty air around him while slowly unfolding and donning woolen tunic and leggings. Instead he grabbed the closest item in a rush, fingers catching in the fabric of orange woolen shirt. In his haste he barely bothered to make sure he pushed his head the largest hole and not a sleeve. No time to brace for the sensation of a second smothering layer pulled tight around his poor soul, or prepare for the scratch of coarse fabric sleeves dragging across raw nerves.

"Gah," he half laughed half yelped in response to the feeling. As if sharp fingernails were trying to tickle sunburned skin, a pained spark raced from arm to arm, spawning that exclamation. As he reached for his undergarments and pants he no longer bothered to express his displeasure only in his thoughts.

"How can they live like this all theeeahhhhhh bloody…son of…ahhh," his complaint was interrupted as he foolishly yanked both underwear and brown leggings up in one motion, triggering a rather unpleasant reaction in his groin. This reminded him that as a human there were new parts of him now that were even more sensitive than his arms. Now completely uncaring if his brethren were still about to watch in silent shock or disapproval, he belted out a string of swear words while shoving tender feet into the boots on the ground.

"Never again! I'll change in the darkest, dimmest cave I can find, sunrise be damned as long as it's warm!" In spite of the temporary emotion, there was no lasting conviction behind the words for this was not a new promise. He had been called to serve in cold regions as often as warm, and he'd certainly regretted this very decision time and again before. Luckily regret and all the other new too strong emotions were cast off as easily as his "mask." Thankfully it was so very hard to remember the earthbound times, when soaring through glorious skies or striding down majestic halls in the Shining City. Though he might forget every time he left humanity behind, as soon as he took up the disguise again he'd remember everything from those past lives before the change finished.

And there were other things to remember than his oft broken promise, things that he was eternally grateful he could push from his mind when the wings broke free. Not just passive images and feelings, but memories that spoke to him. These were thoughts with voices not his own, sibilant whispering shades emerging from the dark corners of the mind. The faint sounds filled him with a foreboding sense of dread as he tied his last boot snugly. Those long dead haunts grew louder as his eyes wandered to the final item that his brothers had thoughtfully hidden beneath the others that he might delay this very moment. With trepidation his eyes rested on the final part of his uniform, a sword lying in the snow.

The blade was a pristine polished shaft of metal, normally silver but now almost white with its gleaming surface perfectly mirroring its snowy pillow. It seemed a normal blade, a shining two feet of thin metal secured to a shiny golden pommel complete with curved hand guard to shield one's fingers from enemy blades. Eyes like his though, even in their dimmed human state, could make out the hidden light within, a twinkle of starlight that could almost have been the reflection of the sun, if his shadow was not currently preventing that very possibility. "Eleos," he called the blade's name in a voice mixing reverence and horror. The voices in his mind were wailing now, a crescendo of misery, long dead cries surging forth from the echoes of the lives it had claimed.

It is a tradition among the arch-angels and the most devoted of warrior angels, to grant their weapons names. This is a sign of respect and admiration for their steely companions, upon which too often their own well beings relied. By the time Gregory and his kin had been formed the days of angels flying the skies in battle against demons were long over, none of the blades forged for them were ever meant to be wielded in defense. Yet they were put to a bloodier and more constant use than those ancient weapons now sitting in Heaven's vaults or reverently placed on mantles. Thus Gregory and his kin had decided upon a name for their blades anyway, a collective name for the two score odd blades matched to the two score odd half-angels, describing the purpose they and their blades clung to, Eleos.

To the Greeks Eleos was sweetest mercy, the very immortal spirit of endless pity. An odd name certainly for a weapon meant to sever the strands of mortality, yet it had been designed with gentlest intent, blessed to end life peacefully. The name was as much an oath as it was a blessing. A promise between Christ and his angelic creations to impart upon the wretched and forlorn the one final act of compassion that might be granted a soul lost to despair. There was the crux of the misery that the blade brought forth in its wielders. For not one life it had claimed was taken to smite an enemy of god, or defend their charges. It's only purpose was to destroy the truest enemy of any man, himself.

Angelos Custos Protego ex ego Vulnero, Christ had named them, which poorly translated into Latin as, "Guardians angels to protect from oneself." While others might speculate as to some secret cunning reason behind the formation of human-souled angels, their name truly was their primary purpose. To protect against that which a regular Guardian Angel had no power over, the freedom of man to end his own life. The laws of Heaven under Christ's influence had grown more lenient, at least compared to those of the ancient days. Recently they had eased even further with the removal of the "Mormon clause." Sadly Christ was not able to bend his Father's ear to mercy towards all the mortal acts and crimes. Most distastefully to the good hearted scion, the laws concerning suicide remained a strict condemnation of irrevocable sin.

Not even regular Hell for those poor souls, but a descent straight to a miserable, sorrow-filled lake, where they might be trapped for all of eternity in black ice, the very tears of their life a final tomb. Frustrated with such a cruel fate for those already so steeped in suffering, an idea had come to Christ; offer an alternative to losing souls in self-destruction. A bloody and distasteful alternative to say the least, yet if a life could not be saved from itself; it was to be preferred, in the bizarre logic of heaven to lose it to another. It was a costly price to pay for Gregory and his brother's, stuffing oneself into a mortal form and feelings, moving amongst the miserable trying to bring hope, and if they failed, ending the life of someone who'd come to trust them. No wonder then that at the end of their duties his kin were so quick to shed the emotions and memories. That Gregory chose to remember his last visit to South Park was entirely due to the fact that he had been there not seeking suicidal souls, but to help forestall the advent of the Dark One. He'd found his time in South Park easier to think back on while winged, having to admit he almost enjoyed the mortal time without the thread of his Duty holding Eleos over his head like the blade of Damascus.

Yet now he was back in mortal form, and Eleos was visible before him cutting his psyche as surely as it could pierce flesh, allowing those memories of other mortal endeavors to bleed back into his thoughts. An endless parade of faces flowing through the mind, boys and girls, young and old, all linked by agonized words of self-hate and loneliness. That was when his body again reminded himself of new limitations, as stinging in his eyes released two salty droplets that traced the soft curves of pale cheeks turned red with cold. The first two always caught him off guard, but they fell alone. He knew too well the plight of those that allowed themselves to wallow in pain. After that single release, representing the breadth of what he'd allow himself to mourn, he choked down the rest, forcing moist eyes to reabsorb their liquid burden of grief. With a mastery of the upwelling emotion obtained from a long acquaintance with sorrow he unmercifully cut the stream off at the source. He reassured himself that he'd dried his eyes with a quick brush of his hand across his face then let it continue downward to touch the golden handle of Eleos.

He carefully checked its length, not for the ever absent spots and imperfections, but for the distraction such practiced actions might bring from awkward emotions. He'd often check and clean it, or just take it out and practice fencing forms, letting the actions provide focus as he sought to control his own feelings. On some level it was vital to his needs, reinforcing the dispassionate relationship of man and blade, rather than only ever wield it as an instrument of murder and memory. When he finally calmed he gently placed Eleos through a coiled loop in his belt letting the blade know he had no further need of it. Eleos hung there a moment, carrying a weight in his mind far greater than the faint tug at his side, before the slight physical pull ceased to be, as the blade disappeared from his and other mortal senses. Until his duty called, the weapon itself willed it, or he reached for the blade, not even he'd be able to detect Eleos at his side, a secret companion in his earthly endeavors.

"Well, you've made yourself comfortable at least," he said enviously to the unseen weapon. Not so lucky was Gregory, for during his slow measured battle with emotion the wind had grown colder. Like a seeking hand the steady winds groped at his clothing with the single minded purpose, hunting for cracks to creep through. Flesh shivered in response to the invasion and Gregory's body urgently informed him that it at least was most definitely not comfortable yet. With a sigh for all the indignities and discomfort both behind and ahead of him he left the solitary snowy glade, heading for the small mountain town below.


	4. Ch 3: A Princely Pauper

**A/N: **Nothing much to add at this point, save that in response to the lovely comment in review, the person you should really be thanking for the speedy updates is my incredibly amazing Beta, Tweekers, who was capable of reviewing at sub-light speeds. Thanks to her awesome work just prior to the Holidays, I was able to get a fairly hefty backlog of finished chapters to keep the update speeds relatively stable at least for awhile! Anyway, this is a Damien Chapter, which you probably would have figured out in the first sentence anyway. For those aching already for Dip-ness, it is chapters away I'm afraid, I just hate rushing a scene before the plot is ready for it. Although the first mention of Mr. Pirrup is in here, you get that much! Can't fight the flow of the plot anymore than that I'm afraid! Still this should give you a side of Damien you might not be quite used to seeing. I do hope you all enjoy!

* * *

"Whenever I think of the past, it brings back so many memories." Steven Wright

WPW Chapter 3: A Princely Pauper 

It required laughably little time for Damien to prepare for his departure. His material possessions were dismally sparse and rather practical in nature for a boy his age. In his defense, there was fairly little in Dis to be worth buying for the Fallen were as austere as their divine brothers. As the Fallen lived so did their city. Clothing he had plenty of, though the impressiveness was in volume not variety. It was almost all divided into trousers and tunics of varying sleeve length. The lack of diversity was equally apparent in the spectrum of colors, from charcoal grey down the short list to plain black. A few reds snuck in here and there, vibrant patches of rebellion within the bland array. Most of the clothes were neutral and pragmatic, an unconscious mimicry of his elders. Yet even if he dressed like them, he maintained some sense of individuality. His clothes' were set in a more modern design than the Fallen themselves wore. No rope belts, not when leather and buckles would do, and if the pants were a bit too tattered and worn for a Fallen's taste, or the shirt too short and tight, they were "sufficient" for his overseer yet still comfortable, _a barely_ _acceptable substitute, just too noticeably different, like me._ _Besides,_ he reasoned, _even if it was all a perfect imitation of their garments, they'd just notice how poorly it look on me._

There was one other common attribute among his clothes, something shared by every shirt, two jagged tears along the upper back. He'd marred every last one of his tunics in a fit of rage years past, the day he'd learned he'd never grow wings. With each cut he'd imagined his out of reach shoulders still under the fabric, the knife rending their betraying smooth skin. Penemue had refused to replace the tunics after the outburst, speaking long and stern about consequences. Even then he'd known better than to try and ask his father for reprieve. Still use and growth over the years had necessitated new shirts, but he'd marred each one the same way. Whether this was to spite Penemue or himself, Damien would have been hard pressed to determine.

Clothing aside the bulk of his possessions were books, all gifts from Penemue, most still unread, from authors throughout the ages, both mortal and divine. The library would have driven a mortal scholar mad with desire, as one would expect from selections chosen by the angel who first shared wisdom's forbidden secrets with man. They were meant well, but each was to Damien a thinly veiled attempt to extend hateful lessons. Lessons that for Damien had over time become less about what he could do, and more what he could never be. Only two tomes had found their way into his pack from the veritable treasure trove around him. Penemue's own detailed account of the journey of the Fallen and Lucifer from Heaven, _Defying Grace_, and a copy of the unabridged Word of God, heftier by many lost chapters than the Bibles up on earth. The first was read infrequently, perused mostly when he felt some sense of guilt for actions that had dismayed his attentive keeper. The second was much abused, every page poured over for a hidden message about where the son of Lucifer might fit in the cosmos. There had been painfully little dedicated to the counterpart of Christ, but still he kept it by his side, the one worldly thing that acknowledged him even vaguely. He was tempted to place a few more books in, perhaps ones that dealt with earthly matters and spirits, but decided against. If there were any volumes that would truly be useful to his circumstances, they'd find their own way into his pack, secretly stashed among his belongings by his ever attentive guardian.

Beyond books and clothes, there was nothing left to pack that Damien truly possessed of consequence, save a few artifacts saved from his last trip to earth. They were the kinds of things a small child might treasure, a perfect quartz stone, a cardinal's feather, and a stolen photograph, ripped from a yearbook, capturing a well groomed class of third graders. Any boy his age would have long consigned all three to a shoebox at the back of a closet, but not Damien. The quartz with its frosted, shining white facets, was the closest he had thought his world would ever know again of true ice and snow, as long he was trapped among these brick oven towers. Hell had its cold places, but the ice was black, not white, and no snowflakes fell from stony and smoke-filled skies. In to the bag he tossed the stone. There would be more snow soon enough, for it was well into fall in South Park and already the flakes might be falling, but this trip would not be forever, and he'd be back in Dis needing the crystalline reminder again one day.

The crimson feather was in his hands next, its hue tinted orange by the hellish glow outside. How it had fascinated him as a child, the first feather he'd ever seen that was not black or silver. At the time he had fancied it might be how his own wings would grow in one day, red as his eyes. Even in his youthful dreams he'd been aware that any wings he might grow wouldn't be black. At that tender age he was still aware of the distance between himself and the Fallen, though he had not yet grasped how great that gap would be. How the feather had survived the assault on his shirts was a miracle, but somehow his mind had overlooked it when he'd raged in the loss of his dreams of flight. Now it was the last untainted memory of that hope, and he laid it in the pack with all the reverence denied the timeless tomes strewn through his room.

Last but not least, he came to the photograph, its surface almost completely wrinkled by its many journeys from hiding spot to his hand, and then back to safety. Like the other souvenirs of earth he'd smuggled down with him, he'd never grown tired of looking at the photo. It was a link to the boys and girls within, though logic told him that no one in it could possibly look the same. This like his other treasures was a bitter sweet memory, recalling a time not wholly happy or sad, but different from the unending drudgery of his life, before and after. Until that point he had been isolated, never having even met the dead humans that toiled within Dis, kept under the safe but dispassionate eyes of the Fallen. It had been exciting in that new world, experiencing such strange sensations and sights. Yet the first moment in that class had ruined all the bright promise, the world might have changed, but even here there was the same distance from his fellows. The sting had been worse for coming from those so similar to him, than ever it had from the Fallen. Dismissal, for all its discomfort was an easier thing to take from those who are alien and different from you, and rejection from the only people who'd ever looked like even slightly like himself, had been a bitter pill to swallow.

He'd humiliated himself then, acting out violently, desperate to win respect and approval. He'd never been a happy child, but up there it seemed under that open sky, the anger he struggled to bind would not be contained. He'd lashed out against the others; not fully grasping that unlike the Fallen, his power could burn their flesh and break their bones. He'd learned that lesson quickly, mortality moved from obscure concept to frighteningly reality with chilling speed. Later he would shamefully confess this all to Penemue who would look down at him sternly disproving. The Fallen were cold, calculating, and certainly there was blood staining their hands, but always for a purpose, never were they needlessly destructive in a fit of emotion. Such was the behavior of an animal, or worse a demon, to act without thought of consequence. One who stood against God did not waste time in petulance and tantrums, no sweat for the small things when the greater picture was at stake.

If that had been the end of his humiliations he'd not dread this return so, but that place had brought out worse in him. Shuddering he recalled how desperate he'd been to win their approval afterward. Even so young, the hunger to be included was a bone deep yearning in him. Not that his circumstance had changed much with time, he still craved acceptance, but now he had learned what lines he would not cross, what parts of him would not yield for mere recognition. A lesson learned too late, for his greatest sorrow from that time was his final act of parting. He had unleashed his powers, well after he'd learned the harm they could inflict, on the only one of the boys who'd openly liked him as he was from the instant they'd met. That face of that boy was the only portion of the picture that was not touched by line or crease. This was his penance for the act, as if perhaps by keeping the image undamaged, he might erase some of the guilt he bore for that which he had knowingly done to Phillip. _Phillip, not Pip, only the boy's who hate him call him Pip. _He winced at the memory of that conversation and his snide remark to follow, instantly addressing the boy as Pip to mock the confession. With more care than even for the feather, he placed the photo precisely, its unmarred portion sheltered between the folds of Penemue's book.

All of his memories and belongings were too quickly stowed away, and now he was left as things always seemed to end up in Dis, bored with nothing to do. He had hours before his escort would be ready, of that he was certain. He had heard the roars of outrage from his father echoing through the tower when he'd arrived in his room; a sure sign Azazel had accomplished his "accidental" interruption. True to the Fallen's word, Satan would be dragged over every inch of the walls, and most certainly the escort would not leave without Azazel at its lead. Breathed into being with spear already in hand, Azazel was a soldier long before adopting the mantle of command. He would lead by doing or not at all. The safety of his charges, city and scion, were his sacred Duty, so both would pass under his watchful eye.

Time to waste; Damien contemplated the few alternatives in his life that would not end in yet more boredom, when a plaintive howl sounded from outside his window. The querulous sound, three different wails wound into one in an odd form of harmony, reminded him instantly of a promise he'd forgotten in the rush to pack. He descended the stairs to the tower's exit only a few moments slower than if a pair of wished for wings truly had carried him down the twining staircase. There directly beneath Damien's window, standing on hind legs while massive front paws rested on stone to bring it closer to the boy's room, waited the closest thing Damien could call too friend in all of Dis. Damien raised two fingers to his lips and blew out a stream of air, the wind escaping in a shrill whistle. Acting as one, three startled heads swiveled on a single torso, their tongues wagging in joyful greeting. Cerberus immediately pushed off the stone tower, bounding across the ground in leaps to reach the grinning boy. Damien was quickly pinned under the mastiff's weight, finding himself the target of a ferocious triple tongued assault of dog-like delight.

"Enough, heh, C-C-Cer, hee hee, I missed you too, but do—down boy. Heel. Heel. Ok, ok! I surrender," he managed to get only short bursts of speech around spontaneous laughs of genuine amusement.

Cerberus at last ceased the licking, but clearly felt his master insufficiently educated in the punishment that would befall someone who had missed a promised meeting. Each of his massive front paws remained rested on one of the boy's downed arms, though with only enough pressure to keep the boy stuck. The limbs were the size of slim tree trunks, each covered in a thick coat of coarse red-brown fur that ended in massive paws the same size as Damien's head, and decked in almost catlike grey claws carefully arranged to not puncture the boy's skin. With the boy so trapped each of the three heads took the opportunity to nose exposed body parts, while keeping their eyes locked on the boy expectantly. Twisting his neck this way and that, Damien vainly tried to match intent stares with three separate pairs of solid black iris-less orbs. Giving up the exercise as failed; Damien managed to wiggle his arms free, though he remained wedged between the thick legs. Reaching up he grabbed the central head, easily the size of his waist, and pulled it down gently by the ears so that he and Cerberus were nose to nose. He stared into the shadowy spheres with a mixture of seriousness and humor, before exhaling in surrender, "You win. I'm sorry I was late, I won't ever be late when I've made a promise again."

Satisfied at last the middle head took this opportunity to sneak in one final lick, scoring a trail of slime on Damien's face from nose to forehead, before the massive forepaws stepped back to let Damien free. Wrapping his arms around the thick central neck, Cerberus graciously lifted Damien off the ground, lifting his neck until it was high enough for Damien to stand. Damien was not small, almost a match for an average Fallen, just shy of 6 feet, but Cerberus could have easily lifted him almost half again his height if he'd raised his head all the way. Standing beside the beast, they were of even height at the shoulders, with each head more than capable of resting on top of Damien's own. Size and heads aside, Cerberus was roughly the shape of a swift but solid dog breed, though Penemue assured Damien there was no true dog in the creature. It was in each head though that Cerberus appeared startlingly strange as they all differed in shape and temperament. The central head, with low hanging ears and an easy smile was that of a Great Dane, and was the dominant and most perceptive of the three. On the left was a Saint Bernard, all soft fleshy cheeks and easygoing grins. The rightmost head was the most serious, a German shepherd with sharp eyes, narrow muzzle, and the only head with upraised pointed ears. No matter the difference of their temperaments, each head was equally adoring of their tiny pale master, who returned the unasked for affection with a whole hearted enthusiasm. They had been this way almost since the day they had first met some three years ago.

**

* * *

**It was a tumultuous time for Damien, his lessons had picked up in intensity as he fully entered his teens, while his Father had just begun the full on descent into complete disinterest that now ruled their interactions. Fed up with his increasingly unpleasant days Damien had begun to take adventurous little trips farther and farther from the heart of the city. It was during one of these many attempts to escape both his overzealous protectors and the soul-crushing boredom that he'd actually managed to get beyond the city gates. He'd made it as far as the River Styx without being caught. At that point farther into the unknown than ever in his life before, he'd collapsed to the ground all at once exhausted and exhilarated both. He lay there waiting for his guardians to come seeking him, only to have his triumphant moment interrupted by the sound of pained whimpers. Knowledgeable of the dangers demons presented to those unprepared, he'd approached the sound cautiously, wary of traps. He'd found Cerberus laying in a bloody mess at the river side, one head outstretched on the ground, as if it had fallen trying to reach the waters, the other two well enough to rise at his approach but not much better off. Letting out a strained warning growl, Cerberus had tried to stand and adopt a defensive crouch, but his right paw gave way, and he crashed down again, his limp head landing with a sickening crunch. He watched the beast for a moment, before examining the clearing around it and taking in the severely mauled swarm of demon corpses about the beast's feet with a nervous gulp.

Weighing his options Damien was about to choose the safe route and leave as the voice of caution in his head was demanding, when the limp head let out another plaintive yelp, that tugged at the human half of Damien's heritage. Realizing he could not abandon the animal without at least an attempt to help, Damien committed himself to a foolhardy plan, all the while cursing his stupidity internally. Clearly suspicious, four eyes tracked him as he made a wide circle around the creature to reach the river's edge. Taking off his shirt he dipped it in the dark waters, and then summoned up his courage. Slowly he approached the weakened head. Both upright heads watched suspiciously, and when he'd come close enough, the Shepherd head barred its teeth. The Great Dane had been watching the dripping shirt with interest; however, and butted the Shepherd into silence before offering a look that Damien desperately hoped implied consent to approach the mangled left head.

Tossing an ironic prayer to no one in particular to protect him if he was misreading the look, Damien approached and used the wet shirt to clean the most serious wounds, in the end requiring several trips back to the river to complete the task. At last finished, he'd felt a nudge from behind and turned to find the Great Dane head staring intently as it sniffed him. Apparently reaching some decision that it was pleased with what it found, Damien received a dog's appreciation, as a tongue larger than his hand thanked him. Clearly this required an equally magnanimous gesture on his part and Damien found himself making a few more trips to clean the Great Dane's wounds. By that time the Shepherd had calmed down, lowering itself from its irritated height at last, and graciously allowing Damien to administer to it as well. After that he had moved to the massive body, with special attention to the places where the necks branched away from the body, guessing that the creature itself would be unable to reach them. The process was exhausting, and involved no small amount of climbing to reach the wounds on the upper back. At last finished, Damien had collapsed tiredly beside the limp head, which had recovered enough to offer its own moist thank you.

His irate guardians had found them both some hours later; Damien deeply asleep nestled between the multiple heads. It had taken some effort to calm the patrol down, and at one point he'd had to physically place himself between the beast and Azazel's spear, before the situation could be resolved. At last Azazel had sent for Penemue, leaving it to Damien's keeper to reason with the child that was clearly behaving in a manner most, "Willful, spoiled, insane, rebellious," the list wound on in a string of even less complimentary descriptions that had the hackles on the German Shepherd rising.

Upon his keeper's arrival, it had taken but a moment for Penemue to ensure that the creature was not a demon, nor any of the other malevolent spirits that co-inhabited Hell with the Fallen. The reason behind the creature's presence was a mystery though even to his learned mind. He was able to correctly identify the creature as Cerberus, the ancient spirit guardian of Hades. Damien shortened it to, "Cer" and was rewarded with an agreeable perking of three pairs of ears. Why it had navigated to this realm and away from its time-lost home in the dark caverns beneath Greece, was a mystery to all, though Damien could have cared less what brought the animal to Hell now that it was here.

"Can I keep him?" Damien asked the time honored four words in the fashion of any child bringing a pet home. He managed this without the traditional petulant pout and heart wrenching gaze, knowing such tools were worthless on the Fallen. The query of course touched off another string of words from Azazel, who exercised the stereotypical soldier's vocabulary to summon a number of expletives that Damien struggled to record in memory for later use. Weighing the alternatives, Penemue hovered on the edge of saying no, in spite of his own desire to examine the beast, when a solution that would satisfy both soldier and boy came to mind.

"Very well, Damien, I will allow it," he began, cutting off the objection springing to Azazel's lips with a hasty gesture. "You may keep him, if you are willing to put an end to this game of escaping. I mean it Damien, you must agree to not sneak outside the city walls ever again. You are not like us, able to fly from danger, or force the stronger demons to submission. Your mastery of chaos is laughably weak compared to some of the things that prowl out here, though half-immortal you may be. You can still suffer great injury, and there is your soul, something that places you at the bottom of the food chain in this place."

It was the boy's turn to look outraged, but he did not bother refuting the logic. It was true he'd been taking stupid risks, just to bring some excitement into his life. He stood indecisive a moment, before the limp head rose from the ground to drift over and remind him again of how grateful it was. Realizing that for now he might have found the kind of change he was looking for, Damien decided it wasn't as much of a sacrifice as it might seem. Penemue's offers were always like that, they might seem monstrously unforgiving at first, but if you looked at them carefully enough they were always perfectly, equivocally, and disgustingly fair.

When the boy finally signaled agreement, Penemue felt relief at the easy solution to the most recent problem Damien had introduced into his once so organized life. At times the boy might be reckless, and even down right impulsive and irresponsible, but he'd never once gone back on a promise, so the running away would finally end. Turning to Azazel again he waited for the nod of agreement, which came faster if with an equally grudging shake of the head. This of course led him to direct a glance at the third member of this agreement, the great beast, again taking in its impressive size. Penemue sighed with the uncomfortably dawning realization that one set of problems solved, new ones were emerging for as the broker of this deal it would undoubtedly fall on his feathered shoulders to figure out how to get the beast back to Dis and restored to vigorous health.

The healing and caring for Cerberus had been time consuming, and Penemue had forced Damien to help, half expecting the boy to grow bored with this like every other task he'd been set. Yet every single day as soon as lessons were finished and occasionally before, Damien appeared at the shelter that had been erected for the beast on the human side of the lake of fire in Dis. Throughout the treatment there was nervousness in the boy, a new found vulnerability, for all bargains aside there was no way of knowing if Cerberus would stay once healed. Penemue had cautiously tracked the beast's recovery the same thought on his own mind. Neither should have been concerned, for Cerberus had apparently made his mind up the instant he'd let the boy fall asleep on him by the Styx. The first time he could walk on his damaged leg, he'd wandered out of the temporary shelter erected for him. After a few cautious scents of the air he'd caused a bit of a ruckus by walking right past the demon and human guardians of the bridge connecting the human side of the city with the Fallens' Towers. The guards did very little to stop the formidable monster. Azazel would take them to task for this grievously later, yet they would all insist punishment by Azazel was far outweighed by what they might have suffered trying to stop the enormous dog beast. A few more sniffs of the air to get his bearings, and Cerberus proceeded to answer the ancient philosophical question, "where does a half-ton, three headed dog sleep?" The answer of course being wherever it wanted to and it wanted, it just so happened, to sleep at the base of the tower that smelled like the black haired boy that gave such good scratches and rubs. An ecstatic Damien had found him sleeping there after his lessons, and beast and boy had been nigh but inseparable since.


	5. Ch 4: Charitable Intentions

**A/N: **Basically this chapter is a the equivalent of a, WTF is the back-story behind all those bloody characters who only showed up in a movie or two episodes! This should wrap up the end of the necessary flashbacks I really didn't want to do a chapter per bloody person, when I could wrap it all up in one, and minimize all the unecessary OC's. And thus, Madame Gavone was born. Back to regular story procedure next Chapter. I should add that the DeLorne and Thorne last names for Christophe and Gregory are not my own. I have seen them in too many DA submissions, and too many Fanfictions to know who started it, but I'm willing to accept them as nearly canon for my own purposes. It may be a bit long, but please enjoy the chapter!  


* * *

"We are here on earth to do good for others. What the others are here for, I don't know."

W.H. Auden

WPW Chapter 4: Charitable Intentions 

The journey to South Park was a relatively short one, or it had been when Gregory scouted the path as the crow flies. On new formed feet, trudging through heavy snow, it was a more daunting task. Every tree, hill, and rocky outcropping he was forced to navigate around was a mocking reminder of his now wingless state. Likewise the wind continued to softly toy with him, bringing a stinging red flush to exposed cheeks, ears, and nose. Worse yet the powdery snow was being packed into the layer between sock and shoe, where it melted in the warmth and formed a pool of dampness that was raising blisters on his raw feet.

Gregory was being much abused by the elements he normally ignored and it was hard to resist the belief that they were somehow deliberately enjoying this opportunity to at last torment him. Unwilling to let the irritation with his inanimate obstacles overtake him, he chose to use the walk as an opportunity to dredge up his memories of the children from his past visit.

"Wendy," his lips tested the first name that came to mind. She was not the first person to leave an impact upon him on his last visit, but she was certainly the one to leave the last mark. At first she had been a pleasant surprise to him, for hers was not the kind of soul he normally associated with. Not a danger to herself, not with her fiery will, purposeful manner, and easy cheer. So unlike his tormented charges, she had been an intoxicating mixture of surety and selflessness that was almost reminiscent of his brethren. Unless one considered their parting, the moment when she discarded Gregory's friendship in careless insulting words, to reassure her graceless, uncouth friend Stan of her affections. The stinging dismissal had chased him from the field of their triumph over the Dark One, rushing his departure back to angelic form, when he might otherwise have tarried to enjoy a more proper parting with his new found cohorts. How to best sum up that girl, he considered before uttering in paced and musical voice:

"First recall the girl of raven hair

Blessed with sun shy skin so fair.

She named us two a friendly pair

Then tossed me aside with nary a care."

He found the diversion from wind and wet more distracting with the challenge of rhyme, as he made a game of his review of past friends. The poetic habit, as well as his over eloquent manner of speech and thought was another side affect of his returning memories. Skilled orators, lost leaders, and tragic poets, he'd spent his fair share of time with them all over the centuries of duty, for the line was fine between those who could and could not bear the isolation and frustration that hunted those perched on the solitary peaks of greatness.

_I probably owe her in some way for that rejection_, Gregory tried to adopt a charitable opinion, _At least it made leaving easier…though it also meant I didn't say goodbye to anyone else like Christophe, or Pip, and of course Miss Gavone._ The names he moved onto had more pleasant experiences than the parting with Wendy, and with no more thought to the dark haired girl, Gregory let the memories carry him away from his walk, to those he met at the most unusual of places in South Park, the Fosterage for Children.

**

* * *

**

Madame Gavone's Fosterage for Children, as it was fully known, was a rather overbearing and officious name for the isolated estate located at the edge of South Park. Like its name the structure was imposing, a two hundred year old, massive stone and oak home nestled in nearly four acres of solitary woods. It had been the residence for some merchant or founder of the town back in the 1800's, before the town had expanded westward moving from the forest edge to the meadows. It had faded into disrepair as the family owning it lost its wealth, and around the 1920's the estate passed into the hands of the local bank. Not having any use for the ramshackle structure, the bank ignored it for a few decades, then deeded it to the city.

The fortune of the place changed one brisk day in the early '90s. One Madame Gavone had come to town, looking for all the world like an elderly Marry Poppins with her demure long sleeve dresses and governess bearing. She was driven into town by her chauffer one quiet gentleman only ever addressed by his first name, Charles. She rode in a '40 blue Ford that could have been a museum piece, and dressed in clothes that were as vintage as the vehicle.

The Madame was fortunate in that she chose South Park, used to some degree of strangeness, for she was an eccentric woman. A bit flighty, far too energetic for her age, and ridiculously naïve, the woman balanced her oddities with a deep love of the world and all people. This extended of course to a love of the lord, whom she claimed had sent his only son down to South Park as a radio DJ. The statement was of course greeted with ridicule, Jesus and Pals not having officially been outed yet, but when she opened her fairly deep checkbook the smirks were at least politely hidden behind hands. The mayor saw an excellent opportunity, and sold the woman the falling apart estate at the edge of town. Miss Gavone of course had been delighted at the antiquity of the place, and paid the mayor far more than it's worth. Most of the money ended up in a joint endeavor with the Japanese mafia and officer Barbrady. Meanwhile Miss Gavone had settled in with her helper Charles, and an endless supply of old oak, cherry, and walnut furniture that had begun arriving the day after she herself had.

She had come to town in a whirlwind of smiles and pleasantries. A few shocked glances from confused people greeted her as her car pulled into the poorest section of town. The shock only heightened when she stepped out, using a sun umbrella against bright sky, bundled in an outfit that could have been perfectly at place on Audrey Hepburn or some bell from the silver screen. In her crisp and clean formal attire she was ridiculously out of place on the dirty littered small town streets. She then strode from house to run down house, Charles struggling behind her with bags of food, for the astonished and suspicious "underprivileged souls." These regular outings became the only time most of the townspeople ever saw the woman.

Her attempts at formal parties were equally unusual. A pleasantly decorated affair but awkward and boring, all finger foods and quiet conversation, while Sinatra and Fitzgerald played on an actual record player in the background. Then Charles who apparently was also the cook and butler, would come in to announce that dinner was served. Guests were ushered into a spacious dining room with a scratched and ancient cherry wood table laid out. The dinner was sumptuous, but the food settled uneasily, made less pleasant by the discomfort felt by the diners making small talk and trying to avoid being drawn into direct conversation with their hostess. After just one such event, most South Park adults would choose to skip future parties. Excluding a few kind souls all subsequent invitations found themselves shuffled from mailbox to desk unopened, and eventually dropped in wastebaskets. It wasn't that the woman was unlikeable, but the people of South Park could barely get their minds around a frozen man from the 80's, an overly zealous philanthropist from the 20's was unfathomable.

Then nearly a year after her arrival, she created a stir anew at the mayor's office one morning, rushing in ahead of a distraught aide. She was so caught up in her excitement she failed to notice the embarrassing position Officer Barbrady lay in on the mayor's desk. With breathless glee she waved to her ever present Charles, who moved from his position blocking the aide, to walk over to the desk and flourish a permit at the mayor, while Barbrady attempted to ease himself off the desk as surreptitiously as possible

"The children, I shall start a home to care for all of the needy children," Miss Gavone breathlessly spoke in explanation, not even noticing the blush on both officials' cheeks when Barbrady fell off the desk and onto the floor with a particularly loud slam. Eager to get the woman out, the mayor grabbed the paper from the chauffer, signing it without a single glance. In that moment Miss Gavone's Fosterage for Children was created.

Needless to say the creation of a foster home in a town that had no orphanages or children in need of such care was greeted with the same raised eyebrows and askew glances as everything else the woman did. It was too late to erase her reputation as the town eccentric even though by that time everyone had realized that the woman's initial claims as to the divinity of the radio DJ were actually true. The place was empty for six months, before she received a letter querying if she accepted boarders, from an English couple who for some reason wished their nephew to attend schooling in the states. A week after her reply, one young Phillip Pirrip arrived in the dead of the night, knocking at her door. It was opened of course by Charles. There on the step stood a tiny young blonde boy in outmoded English clothing, accompanied only by a letter, his luggage and a shy smile. The smile had faded for a moment when Charles had ushered him and his things in and Phillip first saw Miss Gavone.

The old woman dressed in a manner clearly behind the times, and for an instant the boy recalled his previous encounters with Miss Havisham in her ancient wedding gown and house of stopped clocks. He entered cautiously, carefully checking the ceiling for robotic winked monkeys among other horrors. The worry was quickly erased as he found himself wrapped in a shaky but delighted hug from the aged woman, and during her enthusiastic welcome, the smile crept back up his face wider than before.

The boy took well to her home, his own manner of politeness and chivalry as antiquated as her own. If he was a little too shy for her taste she was certain the stream of children that would surely soon come through her doors would provide the boy with all manner of friends. Meanwhile she made him at home, finding a spacious room for him, and introducing him to her favorite room, the library. The boy's clear excitement at the vast array of books was obvious, and that very night they began a new ritual, serving evening tea in the library that they might all relax and read. Other than their reading time, Miss Gavone kept busy with her works, Phillip with his school, and the house settled into a quiet routine.

A few short months later, another child appeared at her doorstep again in the dead of the night. This time on the most inauspicious date of Friday the 13th. This boy could not have been more different than Phillip, for he arrived with no note, no luggage, and definitely no smile. Small, dark, silent, and clothed in black he seemed more an apparition than child, especially with his unusual red eyes. He brushed past Charles with no greeting and no explanation; he brought with him only a scowl on his face which he turned in full upon the ancient woman when she greeted him. He'd stiffened in her welcoming embrace, quite the opposite reaction of her first tenant, and offered only a muffled "Damien," in response to her query as to who he was.

Seeing the difficulty in dragging out responses from her newest ward she gave up on the attempts, and with gracious courtesy invited him to stay at her home. Congratulating herself on her Fosterage's success, she offered him the room next to Phillips, in the hopes that another boy might draw him out. Her initial hopes were dashed when he walked into his room and locked it, not coming out to meet Phillip or join them all at dinner.

After two days of cautious queries and long one sided conversations with the door to his room, she reached the end of her patience. When she at last knocked on the door Monday morning hoping to offer him a ride to school with Phillip the lack of response was all the justification she needed. She determined to enter the room through any means necessary. Surprisingly when she commanded Charles to batter the door down, he merely turned the knob, which to her chagrin was unlocked. With some huffing and puffing to hide her embarrassment she entered the room to find Damien already gone.

She despaired at the sudden vanishing act, contacting the local police, and bristled at the 24 hour requirement for posting a missing person. She was only 8 hours into her wait when her worries were relieved with Phillip's return from school to tell her he had met the boy in class. Though she never actually saw the dark haired boy return, Damien finally descended to join them at a dinner that very evening. The conversation was a strange one at the table, for the boy was upset about the children he'd met at his first day of school, but at last he was willing to answer her questions. Yet the attempts to ask about his background were met with a preposterous and blasphemous story about Hell and Satan, and in the interest of a polite dinner Miss Gavone abandoned the line of questioning entirely.

That night after the boys had gone upstairs she began making phone calls to all of the local and state social services asking for reports about young runaways or lost boys. She received no information, though she did finally get the chance to inform the state officials that yes indeed South Park did have a Fosterage, and she had no idea why the Mayor had not informed them sooner.

Sadly her guest's stay was short. Her attempts to cheer him up or draw him out were met with mistrust, but she did at least get him to hang out with Phillip a little, encouraging them to interact. He might be unstable, but she hoped he'd at least provide some company for the lonely Phillip who worried her so. She did not think it right that the young English boy received no letters from his family overseas, and seemed to have difficulty making friends in spite of his positive attitude. She was certain with time the two boys might grow to be the dearest of friends, if by no other virtue than Phillip's endless supply of kindness. Yet her far reaching plans had no time to come to fruition, for after only a week Phillip had come back from some boy's party, looking a frightful mess. Worried that he'd been beaten up again, she called for Charles who since Phillip's arrival at the estate had added part time nurse to his list of jobs. Over the course of tending his wounds, she was given a frightful tale of her other guest, Damien, having set the poor Phillip on fire, then flung him about in the air.

In spite of the burn marks on the jacket, Miss Gavone dismissed most of the claims as preposterous; she had not yet been in South Park long enough to grasp just how crazy things could get. Still it was obvious some damage had been done to the boy and Damien seemed the culprit responsible, so she prepared to storm up to Damien's room and demand a more sensible explanation. That is until Phillip informed her that Damien's father had arrived at school and taken him home. Amazed that the boy's father had found him, she endured another farfetched story about Satan and Jesus fighting, then the devil throwing the match and taking Damien back down to Hell with him. With dismay for the clear strain Phillip must be under to have invented such a tale, she hugged the distraught poor boy. The devil would certainly not be wandering around on earth, not so near to the Savior, and she made the sign of the cross before pushing the entire idea from her mind. She was touched that Phillip seemed so upset that he'd invent tales to cope with the departure of Damien in spite of his clearly poor treatment at the boy's hands.

"He was just trying to fit in, everyone wants to be liked. I think he might have felt bad about it." Phillip offered defensive excuses for the absent boy and Miss Gavone gave a weary sigh. Hopelessly optimistic and charitable herself, she could hardly call the boy to task for turning the other cheek.

Nothing ever came of her attempts to determine Damien's true origin, though her calls did lead to her next tenants. Now informed of her existence the state sent her a letter asking if her fosterage would house a newly arrived French family while the mother found a job and place of their own. The spirit of generosity, she happily assented, and the DeLorne's were welcomed to her home shortly afterwards, one Karen and her son Christophe. The pair was yet another shock to the poor Miss Gavone. The mother was devout, which struck a chord with the aged Madame, but Karen was given to strict handling of her boy that often broke into angry yelling. Never given to harsh words themselves, both Miss Gavone and Phillip's vocabularies experienced a very unwelcome expansion after hearing a few of those loud arguments. As for Christophe, with the streams of angry French, random blasphemies to upset his mother, and mood swings between aggressive and moody, the Madame was worried she might have another Damien on her hands. Still she learned that as long as she avoided talk about religion, and talked with him without his mother present, he could manage civility and something approaching politeness.

Karen DeLorne, preferred her son to be home schooled, so Miss Gavone had plenty of opportunities to interact with the boy, and day by day he grew less reclusive. She was tempted to force him and Phillip into interacting, but decided against. She was still filled with misgivings considering how the poor boy had faired with Damien. Finally she found her own peaceful common ground to reach the boy, when spring, that rare and very fleeting season in South Park, settled ever late as it preferred in the Rockies. It was at this time that she began to work on one her only selfish and completely impractical obsession, her garden.

All fine homes have a garden, where young children might romp and play amongst ivy and bushes, and adults might wander between Greek columns, to sit in the shade of orchard trees by fountains. All of her favorite novels had such at least, and clearly if her home was to be happy and proper, it should have those things as well. For privacy most had elegant shrubbery mazes, and countless rose bushes, all beneath rare imported fruit trees. Not completely senile yet, Miss Gavone had settled for a large number of hardier apple trees, to be surrounded by shade loving plants, with stone walkways running around the trees and between beds of flowers.

There was of course a fountain; you couldn't have a proper garden without a fountain. Sensibly she settled on a small thing, four cherubs facing in cardinal directions, water shooting from chubby childlike marble mouths to land in a gaping stone bowl some ten feet in diameter. The entire affair was not at the heart of a shrubbery maze though she might wish it, but more practically screened off from sight by dwarf evergreens, giving it a year round wall of green privacy, and a surprisingly enjoyable scent of pine. She did not however bend for an instant to common sense when it came to having her rose bushes. The flower of gentry and nobility, the rose was the one thing she would not sacrifice upon the altar of practicality. Every spring there must be rose bushes, even if all winter they must be carefully covered and tended in a green house, using whatever modern devices and methods the most recent gardening magazines were supporting.

Thus even though each winter brought a killing frost to her small haven, with spring she prepared to do battle with the frozen earth. Charles would add another role, playing caretaker then, to handle the larger part of the work with shovel in hand. The rose bushes and the small flower beds; however, were her responsibility, and she would put a garden apron on, over an entirely too expensive skirt, and tie a wide brimmed straw hat to her head with a costly silk scarf, when the first spring morning dawned. Then with tiny spade and trowel in hand she would march outside determined to recreate her perfect little garden against all odds. This was where she was happily occupying herself that March, when Karen DeLorne's angry screams chased young Christophe outside. Madame Gavone winced at the loud agonizing slam of one of her poor antique doors against the door frame as young boy stormed from the house.

Resisting the urge to protest the treatment of the door, she tsked silently under her breath and focused on the space before her, knowing by then that to confront boy or mother after such a bout would be awkward at best. The boy rushed past her a blur of grey clothing, furiously unkempt dark hair, and tearful green eyes. She lost track of him then, until the sound of sobbing and angrily muttered French came from behind the nearest apple tree. She had no idea how long he stayed under that particular apple tree like some distraught miniature Isaac Newton, because out of politeness she became absorbed in her work.

Her pleasant reverie was interrupted sometime later, by the very same boy. At some point between swearing at God and the sky, the ground and the tree, and especially his thrice damned mother, he had realized he was not alone. Caught off guard at the calm and quiet manner in the normally energetic crazy woman who housed them, he had wandered over to watch with astounded eyes as she lost herself in the work. At last noticing her audience, and seeing the curiosity in his eyes, she pounced on the opportunity to reach him and began what would become the boy's sole source of solace over the next few years. She had at first tried to explain all the aspects of her garden to him, but quickly realized he had little interest in flower selection or planning or potting or watering cycles. No, what the boy truly enjoyed was the digging; he found even more peace in the action than she did, it was almost zenlike.

Initially she attempted conversations during this time, and the boy would awkwardly reply in the nicest tone she'd heard from him yet, but still sticking to short terse answers. He was clearly happiest when there was nothing but companionable silence between them, so he could focus all of his will on the act of moving the dirt, bending and reshaping the earth to his desires. She could sympathize with this, and after awhile the questions stopped. She returned to the same meditative state she preferred in gardening, where she could silently focus and enforce a prettier, more perfect organization on her green little world. For the boy these times became a chance to silently vent, to unleash frustration on the hapless ground with each shovel dip, and fling worries away with each lift, a repetitive outpouring of the overabundance of rage in his troubled young heart. After awhile they reached a silent accord, she would point to a flower bed, and the boy would go at it with a will using a shovel she had obtained for him the second day, realizing he was being held back by her tiny spade. She would come by after and place and organize her seeds as she saw fit before he would finish up covering them all up again.

Too soon she ran out of flower beds, far ahead of her planned spring schedule, and when she saw his face falling, decided to free poor overworked Charles from his caretaking. The boy happily took over the larger digging work, and soon Miss Gavone found herself planning random new projects, ordering statues, and designing new walkways just to keep the boy occupied. Somewhere in the middle of this Karen DeLorne finished up nationalizing, found work, and in a stream of tears between all save the stoic Charles, the two moved away from the fosterage and into the town proper. Miss Gavone was worried that this might mean the end of their peaceful bond, but the next day she walked outside trowel and spade in hand, her Charles following behind, to find Christophe waiting on her back porch, shovel ready. Happy she'd managed to create and keep a rapport, she sent Charles inside to prepare a lunch while old woman and young boy went right back to their work.

It was that very day, while she set him to work on digging what would be a new sidewalk connecting her porch to one of the farthest apple trees, that she saw the most astonishing change in his behavior. Their mutual silence was interrupted with shouts of excitement as he rushed over to her, holding some small furry bundle in hand. Suppressing a ladylike instinct to shriek when she realized he held a live animal, she looked away, as the boy spurted out a stream of French questions. Not catching his meaning she looked him in the eye careful not to look at the beast he held so close to her it could easily claw at her face. Quite proud of her bravery, she somehow managed to calmly ask him to repeat the questions in English.

He tried again haltingly, "Zis thing I 'ave found, what iz it? It waz, I zink bureed zere but it iz still alive so why waz it in zee ground!"

"Why, it's a mole dear," she'd replied. "Surely you've heard of one before."

"A mole?" Christophe tested the word and nodded in the negative to her query.

"Well Christophe, it's a tunneling animal. It wasn't buried, they actually live underground. Moles don't like to be on the surface much, they prefer to burrow and dig all their lives."

"Zee mole likes to dig in zee ground, like moi?," the boy asked in wondering tones.

"Yes dear, though they're not nearly as helpful as you. Actually they are usually terrible for gardens." She repressed the instinct to call inside for Charles to come out and deal with the creature. Clearly the boy was enraptured by the hideous beast. This was the first real conversation Christophe had ever initiated with her, and if it meant suffering a mole in her garden she'd endure it like she did winters, unsupportive townsfolk, and all the other little obstacles that presented themselves for her picturesque way things should be.

So she continued answering questions the boy had about the moles, what they ate, how long they lived, and how they tunneled, until at last their lunch arrived. Then poor Miss Gavone proceeded to suffer perhaps the least dignified afternoon luncheon of her life, sharing it with an unusually chatty but still filthy Christophe and his new discovery. The meal lasted almost an hour, dragged on by the constant queries, while the confused animal wandered about her table knocking over tea cups, nibbling on sandwiches, and dirtying her precious table cloth. That meal finally ended when Christophe jumped up from the table with a proud grin saying, "I shall be zee Mole, as well, non? I vill dig myself away just like 'e does."

"I hope you won't dig too far away, Christophe, people up here would miss you."

The boy never heard her softly expressed concern; he was already rushing off with the squeaking beast to return it to the ground that they might both get back to their carefree digging.

The incident stuck with her, how could such a horrific lunch not, and Miss Gavone realized the boy was eager to learn, just highly selective in his tastes. If she could catch his interest through digging, and connect it to real world things she might expand his mind in ways homeschooling could not. So when at last her gardening ideas ran out, she began to hunt for another digging project, one that might encourage the boy in reading and learning as well as perhaps helping with his education. She settled on something that might have personal and historic implications for young Christophe. Choosing a military treatise on trench style warfare used during the World War at the French and German borders. The topic was a touch violent, but satisfied the requirement of being historically educational, covered French history, and would help the boy with his English. As she'd hoped the boy devoured the book, and with her permission, begun an ambitious project of attempting to convert the far end of her back lawn into a small recreation of some random battle field. She permitted it on the condition that he'd continue borrowing books, which he negotiated to only books about war or digging.

She was amused by the ambitious project of the young boy, enjoying someone else tackling grand tasks for once. Finally the brief weeks of hot weather that were so slow to come to South Park caused her to retreat indoors, and she returned to her other many projects about home and town. This was only after she extended to Christophe a permanent invitation to come over any day he wished and dig up the very ends of her yard or to just enjoy lunch or quiet time in the garden he'd helped create. To her very pleasant surprise the boy took the invitation to heart. Though lunch visits were rare, she would often look outside to find him busily at play climbing apple trees on good days, or she suspected on bad days when perhaps he'd fought with his mother, he'd be in 'his corner' furiously reshaping her flat lawn into hills and valleys.

As summer faded to fall and then winter she found another pleasant result of the relationship. The first time snow fell, she had woken early, prepared to call into town to obtain assistance for her poor Charles in the daunting task of clearing out the fourth of a mile driveway that linked her home to real streets. On the way to the telephone she had to pass an open window, and her observation froze her mid stride, as she saw her chauffer was already being assisted by a boy. At first thinking Phillip had skipped school to help, she'd rushed to the door only to see that it was Christophe, applying shovel to snow as happily as he had to soil.

She promptly went to the kitchen to prepare beverages. Not always at home in that room of the house she could at least prepare a passable hot cocoa, and usually did as a thank you for Charles rather than force him to come in and warm up before doing so himself. The warm beverage was carried out in porcelain saucers, on a far too elegant silver tray. There were still limits to her practicality after all. It was also accompanied by a small fancy envelope which she handed to Christophe. Inside were the wages she would have paid any of the townsfolk whom she would have recruited and an additional sum for the 'gardening help.' The boy made to return it to her once he realized what was inside, but she adamantly insisted he had earned the money, putting on her sternest governess face. The poor boy's mother might have a job, but there was no guarantee the boy was getting an allowance and in Miss Gavone's mind it was certainly his due. Little did she know the monster she had created that day. The boy would go forth with mercenary like efficiency and put most of the other snow shoveling boys in town out of business over the next few months. Those few that held their own against him were all displaced a year later during the Future People Job Crisis, and in the aftermath of that mess, he was the undisputed king of driveway clearing.

Still his service for Miss Gavone's Fosterage, was less a job and more part of the comfortable pattern of the place and hers was the very first driveway he shoveled after each and every snow fall. His own mother even had to schedule an appointment for driveway cleaning, and usually pay double his normal rate. His helpfulness did not stop there and during some of her more ambitious building projects she began to hire him on as an assistant to Charles. At winter's end each snow thaw brought with it Christophe at her backdoor on that first spring morning when she stepped out in sunhat and gardening apron. She would not even need to pick up a phone, for the boy seemed to know the state of her garden soil better than she did, and was always ready for them to begin again. Later, as the boy reached middle school age and at last convinced his mother to let him attend public school, she would have to wait until the afternoons in the springtime, but he'd show up as quickly as he could, still in school clothes, as eager as her to begin the work of bringing the garden back to life.

Other than her gardening assistant, the mysterious Damien, and ever polite Phillip; however, she only received one other notable tenant at her fostering home for all the years it was open. One young Gregory Thorne. The fourth boy arrived in; to her mind at least, the most illustrious company in all of South Park one wintry afternoon. The boy had been driven to her estate by none other than her favorite radio DJ and savior, who had asked her if she might take the youth in for a few months as a personal favor. With a most gracious and heartfelt smile to Mr. Christ, she invited both in and asked Charles to prepare tea before finding a room for the new tenant.

To Miss Gavone's endless relief, young Gregory was as well spoken and polite as Pip, if more direct and outgoing. He was apparently taking a leave from his schooling in Yardale, to among other things, experience the American educational system. She was so happy for the company, that she did not realize how few of her questions were receiving direct answers, as her two guests struggled to answer truthfully, but very sparingly.

She would not realize how little she knew about the boy until those two months ended and he returned home as suddenly as he'd arrived. He'd left so quickly that his goodbyes arrived secondhand, via another visit from Mr. Christ. This lack of curiosity in the boy's life was not a deliberate oversight on her part, but more a combination of her distraction and his deliberate obfuscation. First the boy was more social than young Phillip, often out mingling, or so she assumed, with school friends. More so, when he was home he was always occupied, studious to a fault, his nose buried in some historical book. When not scholastically occupied she would catch him outside playing with his sword. Most people might have reacted to such a sight with shock, but in this too Miss Gavone did not follow the norms. Fencing was a noble sport and she herself had taken lessons as a girl. Though she had not recalled seeing a sword with him when he had arrived, with a glance she could see the boy was clearly practiced and familiar with the blade, thus never saw a reason to worry.

She was so busy herself that she never thought to inform him during his backyard practicing, about young Christophe, but one day she passed by an open window to find Gregory and Christophe both engaged in conversation out by the trenched digging area of her lawn. She was immensely pleased to see Christophe talking amiably to another boy, but did not have a chance to ask Gregory about the encounter. Her time was far too occupied by that point, just a month into Gregory's stay, as she was completely distracted by the American Canadian War which was being spearheaded by insane women in the very town she lived near. With all the energy and resolve she could muster she had initiated the Anti Canadian American Conflict Movement, with its grand roster of two members, if one counted Charles.

In the days after the war, during her lunch with Mr. Christ, she asked the radio DJ to convey to Gregory her regret over the lack of time they'd spent together. He had smiled, told her to think nothing of it, and distracted her from further inquiry about the boy with questions about her latest plans for a South Park Canadian American Peace Summit, where she hoped to invite the single family with both Canadian and American members over for dinner and reconciliation.

Over the next few years the place remained mostly empty save for Phillip, though she'd receive 'temporary guests' from time to time. On legal record, hers was the only sterling reputation in town thanks to a string of happy circumstances. First there was the time she'd won a vacation off of a radio contest thrown by Mr. Christ, and been away during the town wide molestation incident, when all of the other adults had been shipped off to prison. She was fortunate enough during the Mongol and city wall invasion to be in Costa Rica attempting to undo a massive rainforest deforestation push, spurred on by some children's performance of all thigns. Thus hers was the only house with a child in it that did not get a black mark with the state for sending its children out to live with Mongol savages. Other lucky coincidences and acts of common sense together gave her a reputation out of South Park that was the exact opposite of how the town itself viewed her. While she was the crazy old woman to them, to the rest of Colorado she was the single sane woman in that entire nut farm that was the valley South Park nestled in. Therefore when the state itself had to step in to handle matters they always directed the children to stay in the interim at her Fosterage.

Most often this meant that when state police stepped in at the McCormicks and sent the parents to drinking rehab for a week or two, the children were sent to the Fosterage. During this time Madame Gavone's house would revert to an oversized playground for the pack of wild kids, while she and Phillip would retreat to the library room, often barricading themselves in during the evenings. For some reason the vast shelves of books acted as a repellant to the rampaging children.

Similarly about once a year social services sent the young Stotch boy to stay for a month, usually when his father relapsed into bi-curiosity, and his mother attempted to off the whole family in a psychotic episode. Quite amazed that they would keep returning the boy to his parents, she'd attempted a few protests to the local Mayor, but as usual the calls were never responded to. More direct attempts to interact were equally futile as the aide's had learned to lock the entire building down at the sight of her distinct car pulling up the City Hall driveway.

Unable to make much of a difference in the way of the world outside her home, she tried to do as much good as she could during the brief times the kids were in her care. For the McCormick children this meant abundant and large meals that kept Charles cooking for hours, as she attempted to alleviate their malnutrition. As for Leopold, she encouraged a solid friendship between the boy and her own charge Phillip. She would also constantly seek to engage him in conversation, certain he was hiding deep emotional turmoil under that ever constant bubble of happiness he carried about himself.

She continued to take up a number of other small causes to fill up the time between gardening, and the infrequent state forced visits. One such cause was the Madome Gavone's Shelter for Misplaced Animals of all Sexual Orientations, which tried to service an even broader range of unfortunate pets than the Gay Al Sanctuary had. The result had of course met with disaster when she ended up taking in ten turkeys that very first thanksgiving eve. The birds had apparently been mutated, and overnight the ten turned into a hundred by some strange circumstance. They had ruined the entire structure she'd set up when they broke free to go on a rampage and terrorize the countryside. With a shrug of shoulders, and another optimistic grin she'd hired Christophe to assist Charles in tearing the structure down, while she began the paperwork to form a committee for the Prevention of Turkey Genetic Manipulation against Dr. Mephesto.

Throughout all the madcap disasters and events that befall both her plans and the town below she maintained the single most successful feather in her cap that was her Fosterage for Children, with its grand average of a single boarder.


	6. Ch 5: Farewell, It’s Been SwHell

**A/N: **Continued expressions of eternal love to the Beta reading masterwork of Tweekers. Finally free of flashbacking, and onto actualy story! It's time for some goodbyes in Dis, so look forward to a brief visit from Damien's dad!

For those who recnetly subscriped or started reading this story, thank you for giving so generously of your time to share in this with me. Of course an extra thank you for the reviews you guys were too kind. It is nice to know people are finding this story enjoyable, it makes me feel less bad about forcing you all to read it! I also apologize eternally for the lame joke in the chapter title. I've been trying for literary or poetic jokes for the most part, but I do confess to having a sick love of puns. ;) Anywho, I've babbled on enough, enjoy the chapter!

* * *

"It is never good dwelling on good-byes, it is not the being together that it prolongs, it is the parting" Elizabeth Bibesco

WPW Chapter 5: Farewell, It's Been Sw-Hell 

While scratching two gigantic dog necks vigorously, and the untended head looked on plaintively, Damien considered again the strange bond that had arisen over the years since finding Cerberus. It wasn't really surprising he loved Cer so, not when both of them were the epitome of outcasts in an indifferent home. In Cerberus, Damien had the one source of unquestioning acceptance of himself, no expectations or demands save that of a few well placed scratches and the occasional wrestling match. As for the rest of Dis, once their curiosity towards Cerberus's nature was satisfied, the Fallen for the most part gave the newest wrinkle in their well ordered corner of Hell the same detached treatment that they offered to Damien. Ever static creatures of habit, they'd adjusted to the intrusion through the simple expedient of pretending it wasn't there. Cerberus was happy to return the sentiment, ignoring them, and the rest of Dis right back save for a few notable exceptions. Penemue and Azazel he would watch carefully, more respectful than fearful, taking a cue from its master's reactions. He was mildly friendly to a few of the human souls when he wandered with Damien across the bridge. He could get snappy and irritable around a few of the Fallen that had been a little too interested in poking and prodding him when he'd arrived. How he'd react to Satan, Damien had no idea. His father had never met nor even asked about Damien's new pet, though certainly Penemue or Azazel would have mentioned it to him. Then of course there were a very small number of Fallen that Cerberus really, really didn't like.

On the wings of that thought, he felt the fur under both hands stiffen and rise, as all three throats let out low off key growls. Damien didn't have to turn around to know who approached; only one Fallen got that reaction out of even the friendliest of the three heads. His own hands gripped the fur tightly before deciding to face the approaching Fallen, though out of respect to Penemue he decided to at least make a stab at civility especially seeing as he'd soon be free from the approaching stick figure's lessons for good.

"Is there something you need Sariel," the use of the name came out rough and unfamiliar, and his tone was still edged in spite of the words, _perhaps stab was the wrong word to think of for making this attempt._

Sariel smiled in twisted sadistic satisfaction as he approached. The look was unbecoming on an angel's face. He was so eager to gloat over the news he'd heard, he brushed aside the tone and the attempted courtesy with equal disdain.

"So I've heard some interesting news from the others, by now its must be all over Dis. The great Damien is being forced to leave the city at last. I've waited for this since they started insisting I try to share the great mysteries with a half-mortal worm. Time and time I told them you were a waste of effort, and finally they've listened. Azazel himself is going to see you tossed out, even Penemue can't stop it now."

Damien's reaction was far less than Sariel could have hoped for. The boy simply stared blankly at the Fallen, more surprised than dismayed. He was already aware of the arrangements and certain it was Sariel who was getting the facts misconstrued. What was shocking was the fact that clearly his teacher was taking personal satisfaction in this. He'd always known his teacher found their lessons an annoyance, but he'd not quite realized the depth of enmity behind the Fallen's displeasure. Until this moment he would have said it was impossible for any Fallen to even feel enmity actually.

The silence was most definitely insufficient for Sariel, who'd been eagerly anticipating this final chance to score a strike on the boy, and repay the indignities he'd suffered in front of his superiors earlier. Trying again he switched tactics, going back to the taunts were more reliable for getting a reaction.

"What's wrong, didn't Penemue tell you himself? Why would he not let you know? Perhaps he's sick of you like your father?" For all of his normal skill at this, Sariel had missed again with that one; he'd pushed the father button too many times today. Likewise if Damien was sure of something in his life besides Cer's solid affection at his back, it was that if Penemue was sick of him, he'd have told Damien himself. Honesty to a fault was as much in his overseer's nature as insatiable curiosity.

Silence stretched on and in an unusual twist of circumstances it was Sariel losing his temper. He approached Damien angrily, overlooking the three heads that loomed menacingly overhead.

"Come on boy, get mad! Raise your fists! Flaunt more of that weak little fire!" Stepping closer Sariel was all but in the boy's face as he finished, "What are you playing at? Pretending to be one of us now? Think that if you start acting like a Fallen they might change their minds?! It's too late for that now boy. You hear me don't you? You're finished!"

The last was punctuated with a bony finger to Damien's chest. The touch crossed the final line, and at last tempers snapped, but not Damien's who was still just too disturbed by the amazing display of emotion. The one to finally react was actually a bit above and to both sides of Damien. Growls of anger climaxed into a less subtle warning as three sets of jaws snapped at the air around Sariel's downturned faced. They all fell deliberately short, as if to emphasize this was a warning, though the German shepherd's bite may have brushed against a few dark locks of Sariel's hair.

Sariel's gloat died on his lips as he leapt backwards, tripping on his own bony legs and landing on his backside in the dirt while his wings flapped feebly behind him in astonishment. That at last brought a reaction out of Damien, an unconcealed laugh. He knew the instant the laugh escaped he shouldn't have done it, but the look of fear and anger mingled on his tormentor's face too comically to not get a reaction. Besides Damien knew no real harm had been intended in the warning from Cerberus, _well at least by most of Cerberus anyway_, he mentally amended as he raised a hand to rub the German shepherd head soothingly.

Sariel lurched to his feet, sputtering indignantly for a moment before recovering his speech. Then he started shouting to be heard over Cerberus who had started barking loudly the minute he'd risen.

"You and that… that… mongrel! Rest assured boy as soon as you're gone, I'll personally see to it that they throw that thing into one of the most vicious parts of Hell."

Those words killed Damien's amusement quickly, but not because of the threat they implied. Cerberus was more than capable of handling himself, and Damien seriously doubted either Penemue or Azazel would allow something as wasteful as killing an animal over a moment of embarrassment. What silenced his laughter was the very sudden realization that if he left Dis, he'd be leaving Cerberus behind as well. Somehow the idea that a giant three headed dog might not blend in on the surface, had never quite registered.

Sariel misread the crestfallen expression, and thinking himself victorious at last, took a deep breath. He prepared to launch into detail just what sort of horrors he'd inflict on the animal in Damien's absence. It was at that moment that a stern voice loudly cut him off from behind.

"Enough, all of you," the icy tone of command rang out from a fast approaching Penemue, who in seconds was in the thick of things, looming above everyone save Cerberus. "I'll not have such outrageous behavior! And in public of all places.

"Sariel," he turned on the angular angel, who exhaled the breath he'd drawn in a most undignified cough. "I don't know what is causing you to act so… strangely but this is unacceptable. Report to my chambers at once. I will discuss this embarrassing display of yours in detail with you when I've finished up here.

"And you," Penemue continued as he turned to the madly barking Cerberus, "will stop that racket this INSTANT."

The crashing sound of multiple sets of massive jaws clenching shut followed the command immediately, and three heads dropped to the ground very apologetically under Penemeu's icy stare.

The noise handled, he redirected his gaze on Sariel and glared the angle into a hasty retreat. Once satisfied with Sariel's obedience he finally raised a hand to his forehead rubbing it in obvious discomfort.

"Damien, Damien, Damien. How you always seem to be at the center of disruption here is just so…" he was unable to find an appropriate finish to the thought and ended instead with a sigh.

Seeing indignation rise on Damien's face at the implication that the boy was to blame he waved a hand at Sariel's departing form and quickly amended his statement.

"Oh I'm not saying you did anything to deserve that. Sariel's been acting passing strange for years. It's the chaos in the air, the loss of direction from your sire, and just part of the price of channeling demonic magic's. It wears one down slowly but surely and it's past time for him to go into seclusion for a century or two to re-center himself. We could all use the stabilizing with things so out of sorts. What I meant Damien is that it seems every time something unexpected happens on the Fallen side of the lake of fire, your at its center or at least the topic that started it. I can almost believe things will be calmer here tomorrow, even if the revolution we've been dreading starts this very night."

Instantly Penemue regretted his words, which of course just drove the point of disruption home yet again. The Fallen didn't say things they regretted, it just wasn't in their nature to be impulsive; of course they also didn't point and yell in outrage, or bicker amongst themselves like children, unless it was about Damien. Still while true it may be that the boy was a source of disorder as surely as any demon, the disruption wasn't a malicious act on the boy's part. He just innocently interjected mortal chaos into their immortal lives, and Penemue knew his words had wronged the teen. Another sigh escaped his lips, he'd have to make up for it somehow, and he dreaded to think of what spontaneous act he'd have to commit later in apology, but fair was fair. For now though there were more important matters to attend to, and a strict schedule to maintain.

"Damien, you are packed I trust, or you'd not be out here?"

Damien nodded, lips already pursing petulantly.

"It didn't take much time to put everything away, it's not like there's much I can bring up with me."

That thought reminded Damien of one big furry thing he couldn't hide in his pack, and his mournful gaze latched onto Cerberus's still submissively lowered heads.

Penemue caught the look, and noting the sorrow in it quickly ferreted out the reasons behind the misery. Sometimes it was useful being the Fallen angel of wisdom and secrets. With a crashing surge of insight that was part of parcel of his nature, Penemue saw the form his apology would have to take. Looking the beast over, he barely managed to hold back a groan of dismay as he contemplated how little time he'd have to prepare a Working. If there was one thing that Penemue could say for certain that he absolutely could not abide, it was doing anything with haste, all angels disliked rushing things, but Penemue truly, truly detested it. Nothing went smoothly if hurried, and every sudden change or impulse led to disruptions and always threw awry even the most carefully arranged plans. Still the idea had a firm hold of him and there were advantages to carrying it out even if it introduced yet another element of chaos into their arrangements. Of course first he had to finish up with Damien, before he could prepare anything. With that thought in mind he returned his focus to the boy.

"Good Damien, good. If that's the case there's someone I have to introduce you to. They'll be accompanying you to the surface as a necessary part of this ruse."

With those words, Penemue motioned one hand, and two figures who somehow had managed to stay unobtrusively hidden throughout the drama at the tower base approached. Even Cerberus flinched a little at their sudden appearance, wrinkling his noses at the very faint scent of demon. Damien caught the wary sniffing of his friend, and stared at them closely himself. Without Cer's reaction he'd never have noticed the spark of malevolence buried deep within what appeared to be a completely ordinary man and woman. Both bowed deeply to Penemue, before turning identically blank stares upon Damien.

"Damien I would like you to meet Legion," Penemue said by way of introduction.

The name tickled the back of Damien's mind with vague familiarity, and he stared at the two, waiting for one of them to reply and acknowledge the introduction. No reaction from either one hinted at which one was the afore mentioned Legion, as they both remained stiffly solid with a vacant stillness quite unlike any demon he'd ever seen.

"Which one is Legion?" Damien finally asked, directing the question at Penemue. He correctly assumed that he'd not get an answer from either of the two strangers.

"They both are, well, they both are part of Legion I suppose. It's a multi-minded demon, quite unique really." Realizing that Damien probably hadn't read the particular book Penemue had written on this very topic though it was sitting in his room among countless other treatises on demons, he decided to expound further. "The true demon has no body, or it has countless bodies, depending on which approach you take. It's a mass of different minds, though the focus of their minds can and will move between the different hosts. The division has advantages and disadvantages. The being may be mighty, but the actual level of demonic power in any single body is very small. Of course when Legion focuses its full being into one of its bodies, he can becomes a force to be reckoned with. But when he's not in them, his hosts can go almost completely undetected anywhere, even on the surface, as long as the focus of the central mind is off of them. Of course it also means individual parts of him can easily be commanded and controlled by others, as long as they are isolated. Which is what I've done here, sealing these two shells away."

"Wont that bother him, the central him that is," Damien queried half interested in spite of himself at the strange concept.

"Unlikely," Penemue continued, "He has literally hundreds of bodies, and these two have been removed for countless years while I was studying the phenomenon. As long as nothing happens to draw his attention back to them, it's as if they've simply ceased to exist as far as the rest of Legion is concerned. It's not unusual for parts of Legion to go wandering for long periods of time on their own, before being reabsorbed into the whole. The advantage to me is that I can use them as eyes and ears on the surface, tapping their minds much like Legion would, and they can serve in loco parentis, maintaining your cover and taking care of those daily tasks that a child is not supposed to handle."

Damien found himself rather uncomfortable with the idea of demonic step-parents, but was in little mood to protest with all the other things on his mind.

"Well then what names are you going to have them go by? Legion isn't exactly a normal name up there, and it'd be even more suspicious if they both went by it."

Penemue prepared to respond, but found no answer immediately available. He was caught off guard by the practical question. _Of course they'd need names_, he thought with chagrin before reluctantly admitting, "I hadn't considered that. And it's a rather pressing concern actually; perhaps you can think of something? You know I'm not comfortable with making impulsive decisions."

A grin was Damien's initial reaction to that very serious understatement, but he quickly thinned his lips in concentration and applied his mind to a solution. The grin returned when the rather amusing and obvious solution popped into his head.

"How about Lee and Jen? That should cut down on any confusion if I mess up and sound like normal enough human names."

"A touch whimsical, and a terrible joke, but you'll be the one stuck with saying it all the time, so I have no objections," Penemue summed up his opinion neatly. "Very well then, I'll see to it they answer to Lee and Jen. I suppose for a last name we can just go with Star."

"Lee and Jen Star, sounds a bit hippyish," Damien replied with a groan, "but it's better than the full Morningstar I suppose. Someone is bound to catch on to that. Which raises another question actually. What about me? If I'm supposed to be in hiding are you going to arrange that everyone forgets about my last visit?"

"I'm not really going to make them forget, I'm just going to adjust their memory of you. Completely erasing their memory of you would be a foolish waste of energy, something you'd know if you'd applied yourself a bit more to your lessons. When the mind runs into something that should trigger a recall of blocked memories it tends to resist the unnatural vacuum. Like a dog with a bone, no offense to Cerberus, they would continue returning to the blocked memory every time they saw you until eventually the spells on their thoughts would come unraveled under the pressure. Like all things that deal with humans, it's impossible to get a perfect grip on them with their slippery natures. Instead of removing you, I'm simply editing out the parts that made you seem more than another mortal. All the little emotional outbursts with fire, Satan, or other abuses of your powers are going to be sealed off. As long as you avoid exercising any of those abilities, or otherwise exposing your nature, they'll have no reason to try and look for those memories, thereby leaving the seals intact."

"So they'll remember meeting me," he replied unsure if this made him happy or sad. "But the displays of power I performed had a big impact on how they viewed me, which Damien are they going to remember, the one they picked on, or the one they thought was cool?" Damien was dismayed by how much he hoped it'd be the cool one, especially after the lengths he'd gone to convince himself that he was beyond such dependencies.

"It depends on the person, I suppose," Penemue mused, caught up by the interesting puzzle. "My assumption is it won't really matter much. It has been almost ten years, Damien, and you know better than I how much mortals change. They've all probably grown as much as you have. I'd imagine you'll just have to reacquaint yourself with them all over again and see how things go."

Damien pondered that response, sitting down roughly on the ground to lean against one of Cerberus's heads, trying to figure out if that was a good or bad thing. The closeness to the beast reminded Penemue of his own unhappily hasty decision, and he decided to go begin preparations, letting the boy sort this clearly 'human' problem for himself.

**

* * *

**Damien remained in this position idly stroking Cerberus for the rest of the day. Cerberus himself endured the quiet and wrestle free afternoon with stoic dignity, but only because the boy had found a particularly good spot behind the ears to scratch. They remained in this position until startled out of it by the heavy thud of seven Fallen soldiers landing at the tower entrance. Their impact with the earth was louder though no less graceful for all that they were decked out in the steel embrace of full battle gear.

An angel girded for combat appears much the same no matter which side of Limbo you're standing, though the colors do change, silver and gold for Heaven, black and scarlet for the Fallen. A combination of Roman and medieval English influences some would describe their gear, although an angel would be quick to remind the observer that it was they who'd provided the inspiration for both civilizations. The armor consisted of a front and back chest plate to shield the torso, and cylindrical curls of metal that curved around the fronts of the legs and arms. The angel motto for combat was "mobility first," and the design from the beginning of time had not altered by one iota from that theme. Even the most grievous wounds would heal over time, so there was little need to fully shield an Immortal. The advantage in the skies belonged to whoever could move fastest while tiring the least. Subtle enchantments in the armor enabled the half shells on the limbs to rotate around the legs and arms easily to deflect attacks no matter from what quarter they originated. Such little sorceries enabled protection, while never completely restricting the motion of joints as constricting full plate armor would. Only the torso, which contained the all important upper body muscles key for flight, was always fully covered on both sides. All things told, the Fallen cut quite dashing figures dressed for war, their wings matching their blackened armor completely. Matching save for Azazel who as commander wore crimson gear which contrasted to create an even more impressive menace the way his black feathers brought out the blood red tones.

When it came to weapons the angels were far less uniform, as spear, sword, as well as few more unusual weapon choices were all acceptable options. In the end it came down to a personal decision of what weapon worked best with that angel's style of combat. Azazel, no surprise, possessed half a dozen weapons attached to random places around his body, fully proficient in all of them. Of course his favored weapon was the spear, his beloved Mortis, which occupied the place of honor in his right hand. According to stories, Mortis was the first and only blade to ever strike the Arch-Angel Michael, when the two had come to blows during the Fall. The act had coated the spear tip in the mercuric effluent that is the blood of angels, so it was claimed, staining the blade with a permanent shiny silvery sheen that stood out among the darkened and hushed grays of the other Fallen weapons. Damien wasn't entirely sure of the veracity of the legend behind the spear's sheen. Surely other Fallen blades had cut angel flesh during the Fall, yet he'd not ever seen another blade in the corrosive atmosphere of Hell maintain that mirror like shine.

For once Damien did not have to fight back envy at the site of soldier angels prepared for war. The imminence of his departure brought the sad thought of leaving Cerberus back to his mind. With a heavy heart he realized that it was time to leave, and he'd wasted the entire afternoon brooding over South Park. He wrapped the closest neck in a crushing hug, trying to dry any tears that might be forming, before they could shame him in front of his escort. The two heads not immobilized by the assault nosed him curiously, trying to reason out the meaning behind the sudden wetness brushing against its fur. Damien would have lost it then, he was certain, if one of them had tried to lick him soothingly, but he was saved from that fate as all attention turned to the arrival of Penemue with Lee and Jen. In a rush the moment to go was upon him. With great haste Damien jumped up, desperate to make it to the tower stairs and the pack in his room before his eyes had further reason to moisten. If he'd delayed a moment he might have glimpsed the uncomfortable but determined look Penemue directed at Cerberus, or the awkward squaring of winged shoulders as Penemue braced himself for something distasteful.

In his room Damien stared at the pack on his bed and then quickly scanned his room for whatever he might have overlooked. It was depressingly empty; someone had come through in his absence and already begun stowing away the things he had not already packed, undoubtedly moving the items to some vault in the tower. The room now looked like almost every other unoccupied chamber in the tower. The idea that he had left so little an impact on this place broke the damn of restraint on his eyes, and tears flowed freely down his cheeks.

"Damien, are you crying," a hollow voice asked from behind him, and he turned to find the one person he had least expected and most certainly least desired to face at this moment, standing behind him. Satan filled the doorway with his crimson bulk, looking nothing like an angel. Why he took this form rather than that of a Fallen was one of those taboo questions that had often flitted through Damien's mind. For once he did not feel the normal urge to ask. _It doesn't matter anymore_, _I don't really matter anymore either. I probably never did,_ Damien reasoned bitterly, though he tried to squash the feeling of self pity and pull himself together in front of his dark and terrible sire.

"Sorry father, it was the air. More soot than usual in the sky today," Damien proffered feebly.

Satan merely nodded, either believing his son, or unwilling to find the energy to force the issue.

"I suppose your leaving for the surface," he said eyeing the pack behind Damien, "You must be careful up there Damien, you can't risk anything happening to you. You're too vulnerable to behave rashly up there."

Damien turned away from his father's face then, unsure if he was up for the usual father-son interaction, strained as their conversations always were with the unsaid. He moved to pick up the pack on his bed. It was heavier than he recalled as he lifted it, and he felt the edges of more than just the two books he had initially stowed press against his back. He smiled at his overseer's predictability using the image of stealthy Penemue sneaking extra tomes in to the pack to help him banish the last hints of sorrow from his face. Still he delayed the inevitably awkward goodbye, by continuing to inspect those parts of his room he could see that did not require facing the door. Without turning he worked up the nerve to continue the conversation finally.

"You don't need to worry that I'll do something stupid. Penemue has seen to it that I'm fully informed of the dangers. The escort is outside with Azazel at the head to see that I reach the surface safely. I'm sure between the two of themselves your advisers have everything perfectly in hand."

Silence greeted his words, and when he turned to face the doorway it was empty. Satan was nowhere to be seen. _Bastard,_ Damien thought, _not even a proper goodbye for appearances._ Deciding he could manage to be at least half as impassive as his father, Damien stiffened his back and descended the stairs, staring dully forward, very careful not to let his gaze linger on any of his surroundings as he left his only home.

Outside he tried to maintain the impassivity, but was distracted by the astonished looks on the faces of his escorts. Following their gazes he turned to glimpse the bent back of his overseer, who was channeling demonic power at something out of site, and quite strongly from appearances.

When demonic power is used, usually the affect was all one needs to identify the use of power, usually in rather impressive or obvious act such as an explosive blast, or wreath of flames. The root of demonic power is in change; however, not in pure destruction and fire, so it is possible for there to be less dazzling displays. Even with more subtle spell castings, celestial beings, or those with mixed heritage such as Damien, could still see signs of demonic power, like the blurry rippling effect in the air above a very hot surface. Such rippling was now causing the air to shimmer violently above Penemue's outstretched wings. Curious as to what was going on Damien tried to get a better look but Penemue's wings blocked his attempt, providing a very effective visual shield.

Giving up on satisfying his curiosity for the moment, Damien scanned for Cerberus, only to find the beast absent. Feeling a chip in his façade starting to crumble already at the missing animal, he called out pleadingly.

"Cer? Boy? Come here."

The waves of rippling air crashed back down into Penemue's form, and an oddly quiet bark sounded from behind the wings. With a groan, Penemue stood straight, folding his wings back down and running a hand through sweat damp hair that now stuck to his forehead. From around his side a small fast moving blur charged, leaping up at Damien. Damien felt two paws hit his shoulders, and found himself looking down at a very travel sized Great Dane, who met his gaze with dark black adoring eyes.

"Cer?" Damien asked, confused by the sight. The dog barked again, looking as clearly confused as Damien at the reversal of who was looking down at whom. The dog sneezed once, its body shaking with the violence of the outburst, and the entire head flared outward thickening into that of a Saint Bernard, confirming to Damien's wondering eyes that this was indeed Cerberus. Quickly he grasped that there could be only one reason for making Cerberus look like a normal dog, and he turned his face towards Penemue with open delight on his face.

"I was afraid of that," Penemue commented in a clearly drained and disappointed voice, referring the dog's sudden transformation of breed and not Damien's reaction. "If it happened once it'll probably keep happening I suppose. I shouldn't have rushed it; things never work right when you hurry them."

He might have continued complaining in this vein of thought if the breath had not been knocked out of him at that moment by the impact of a 17 year old boy against his own far to slim form, a pair of arms locking around him in a crushing hug.

"Well, yes, um…well you see, this isn't nec-ess-essary. It was really the… most… prac-… practical… um… Damien… You are... You're… choking me," Penemue managed to get enough air into his compressed ribcage to get the words out but only with great difficulty.

While fighting for this air he was also trying very hard to maintain some sense of decorum in front of the escort. For their part they all politely looked away from the scene except for Azazel, who looked directly at the display impassively. Well at least Penemue hoped it was impassively. _Did the corner of Azazel's mouth just twitch? Surely he's not trying to smile. I must be more exhausted than I thought if I'm seeing things, _Penemue shook his head to dispel the most unlikely thought.

A few moments more of awkward embrace, and Damien at last backed off very slightly, his face still locked in a wide smile. He turned to look at Cerberus again. Cerberus returned the eager look, but refused to approach the boy while he stood near Penemue. The glances the dog tossed Penemue way were, unlike Damien's, heavy with accusation; Cerberus saw no reason why his master should be so happy about this rather unnerving turn of events. This _is clearly not a situation for rejoice_, Cerberus's now much smaller but still expressive face seemed to say.

Recovering his breath with some difficulty, Penemue attempted to explain the clear, calculated, and certainly _not_ emotional logic behind his actions.

"It's quite, (cough) practical. This way you have a much more effective guardian up there than Legion. He's not a demon so he won't trigger the normal divine alarms. As long as his appearance is held in check he'll be completely unnoticeable. He'll certainly be useful as additional protection for you while you're up there. And a dog will really add to the illusion of a normal boy…" Penemue's voice trailed off as he realized he was only trying to convince himself at this point and not the smiling Damien.

"I understand," Damien managed to try and sound serious, which was difficult as he was fighting to hide a huge grin. He stepped back to give his poor oversee more space to relax. "It's an elegant solution to the problem, clearly," he continued in an almos tmocking imitation of Penemue's manner of speech while trying to straighten his face out.

"Quite," Penemue replied with an air of suspciion. He was positive he was being poked fun at, but could find no dignified way to address the situation. "Well well," he decided to push things forward rather than risk anymore outbursts, "time is of the essence and you all can't just stand around here wasting it!"

His voice rose here, addressing the entire party, as if he himself hadn't been the one delaying the departure with unnecessary explanations.

With the casual efficiency of the Fallen, Lee and Jen were paired off with two angels, and Cerberus was unceremoniously picked up by a third angel. The hound yelped unhappily at this, clearly still not pleased with being small enough to be manhandled by everyone. Azazel came up behind Damien last, picking the boy up with one hand about the waist, easily lifting him for all of his size. A storm of grit and dirt rose in the flurry of flapping wings, and the angels lifted off the ground with their burdens. Azazel flew at point, with the three other angels who carried passengers rigidly flying in v formation to either side of him, letting him break to the air currents to smooth their flight. Well smooth the flights of all but the one who carried Cerberus, who was having a difficult time maintaining a steady path with a madly barking dog twisting unhappily in his arms. The three unburdened flyers ascended far faster, moving into a wide circle far above the others, wary eyes on the horizon in all directions. Damien missed most of this, as he was busily watching the ground and his overseer shrink in size below his dangling feet. The dirt and heated air must have conspired to play tricks on his vision, because Damien almost thought he saw the figure of his overseer gesture in a most undignified wave goodbye.

The impossibility was quickly forgotten as the sensation of moving air brushed against his face. The angels had reached the desired altitude, and had begun to pick up speed. He let out an excited whoop of enjoyment, careless of who might hear, as he reveled in the long wished for sensation of flight. A short round of clipped booming sounds reached his ear around the whistle of wind, and his whole body shook for a moment. He looked around with alarm until he realized that the angel carrying him was the source of both vibration and sound. _Is the grim Commander of Hell actually laughing? I really am a bad influence on them,_ Damien thought before laughing himself. He soon dismissed this too as he lost himself in his first experience of cutting through the sky. Behind him the besieged city of Dis faded away into a grey speck, already forgotten on the red horizon.


	7. Ch 6: Déjà…You!

**A/N: **Next chapter up! A quick warning to any avid Christophe/Gregory fans, Wendy does appear in this chapter, and seeing as I cannot "undo" the existence of certain scenes in the movie, I cannot pretend that there is not some level of attraction between them. I am not; however, a particularly big fan of triangles so do not worry yourself to an untoward degree that some bizarre extra pairing will work itself in. Besides, I like Wendy far too much to permit her rather grisly demise, which would be about the only possible way any triangle would end up that involved someonetrying to move in on 'Tophe's territory.

With that warning I hope you will not look to askew at my decision to portray her as quite a lovely girl, or the fact that even Gregory is not completely immune to her charms. Even Stan fell for her smile, and that boy was practically Kyle's love slave even back in the fourth grade. Even though I myself am not particularly an expert at judging women attractive, (for obvious reasons) I cannot deny that any girl with that much spunk, personality, intelligence and charm is going to be a captivating girl when she grows up even if she gets a second chin and an assortment of warts to dot it. Rather than use that image; however, I've just decided to make sure she's as lovely on the outside as she surely is on the inside.

As a slight balm to any singed readers who might decry my decision to reunite Wendy and Gregory first, I will tell you that the already written and currently being Beta'd Chapter 8, does indeed have our favorite French mercenary. And to further wet your appetites, it's titled, "A Glimpse of Eden's Apple." With that to ease any misgivings you have, I finally shut up so you can get on with the reading.

After I say thanks for reading of course. And for any reviews that have or may be written. Though I have not responded to all of them, I assure you I have read and enjoyed every single one.

* * *

It's déjà vu all over again." Yogi Berra

WPW Chapter 6: Déjà…You?!

Over the years Gregory made a habit of checking on the Fosterage surreptitiously, not that it was exactly difficult to obtain information on anything South Park related while in Heaven. It was not that South Park was assigned its own Dominion, not since the days of Rome had one of the all-seeing Dominion angels been assigned to do nothing but watch a solitary town. Yet so much occurred in the unstable place that at any particular point in time there was bound to be at least a half dozen angels sneaking a peak at South Park, just to be sure the entire world wasn't about to come unglued thanks to some Colorado related insanity. The gossip vine if nothing else, enabled Gregory to at least see that not too much of the misfortune in South Park befell the Fosterage itself. Coordinating with Jesus he was able to see that all the bad luck of both the town and Madame Gavone's other programs, miraculously avoided the Fosterage itself. It was undoubtedly this extra "divine" insurance that kept the place still in operation nearly ten years later when Gregory returned.

Of course hearing about it and actually revisiting it, were two very different things, and he could not stifle the sense of pleasure when his weary feet stepped off the slushy street road and onto a clean, well maintained driveway. Ten years seemed to fall away far more swiftly than they had accrued, as a pleasant rush of nostalgia triggered at the familiar setting. Amusement met the grandly made and overly officious sign of welcome to the Fosterage. In spite of the weather, he felt warmer finishing the last leg of his walk, with the tall manor in sight at the end of a tunnel of leaf bare trees.

With a smile of fond recollection already in place, Gregory reached up one hand to lift the oversized, old-fashioned, and definitely unnecessary brass doorknocker. The resounding boom echoed through the timbered frame and into the chambers beyond. In a surprisingly short amount of time he was greeted by the unchangingly stoic and overworked Charles. A single upraised eyebrow was the only acknowledgement of the highly unexpected appearance of a boy near a decade absent, followed by the door opening wider and a gesture for Gregory to enter.

"Madame should still be in the library planning a memorial gift basket for the seven year anniversary of the death of Mrs. Winfrey's unmentionable parts, Master Thorne. If you would join her there she would enjoy taking tea with you. Afterwards should you desire, I will have your old room prepared?"

Charles offered all of this with a steadfastly deadpan expression, not reacting to the ridiculousness of his news, and anticipating of all of Gregory's needs and questions. These were skills that one had to develop to survive years serving and interacting with an incredibly unpredictable persona such as the Madame.

Not able to keep a straight face himself at the stream of information, Gregory could not hold back a light chuckle as he replied.

"Thank you for Charles. Yes I would very much like to stay in that room again if Miss Gavone would permit. Tea would be delightful. Do you still brew the rosehip and lemongrass blend?"

Charles didn't bother pointing out what they both knew, there was no possible way Miss Gavone would not permit any guest to stay, and in fact might adamantly refuse to allow him to leave if he was just hoping to pay a short visit. Instead Charles softly closed the door behind Gregory, and knowing the boy could find his own way up the stairs to the library, retreated to the kitchen to prepare the aforementioned repast.

So Gregory wandered up to the library at his own pace, pausing outside the door to prepare himself. Soft and silent the door opened on oiled hinges, everything Miss Gavone owned was like the woman herself, well tended in spite of the age. He stepped inside and closed the door just as carefully before taking inventory of the room.

The library was a jumble of chaos and order alike, as if the two base forces had decided to wage a private war within these four walls. Tall shelves of neatly arranged books towered over tables haphazardly stacked with piles of documents. Every shelf was aligned perfectly with the next, and each table neatly centered between shelves and walls. The smaller desks and accompanying chairs however, were placed in a random arrangement, clearly positioned to an individual user's tastes. At the desk strewn with the most horrific mess of papers, sat the indomitable woman, clothed formally in spite of being alone at home. She was the image of propriety in a white dress patterned with black pinstripes, matched to the peacoat she wore overtop. The two topmost buttons were left opened and creased at matching angles, to reveal the neck high pristine white blouse, its silk spilling out from the tight confines, adorned with black lace and beads in a floral design on the collar. Her salt and peppery grey hair was pinned up tightly in a bun, though a few strands hung down to frame a matronly face. Completely oblivious to her new audience, she spoke to herself in a soft yet precise and firm voice as her pen scratched furiously to keep pace with her words, recording them into a small leather journal.

"…and so again we offer our deepest regrets on this, the seventh anniversary of your loss. We hope the aforementioned fruit and floral basket will ease your burden. Please be reminded that others sympathize with you and admire how you endure so strongly, coping with the death of both front and back parts of your person….." Her droning voice stopped as she tsked, and the pen scratched the last line out.

"No, no that won't do at all. That's too unspecific. It sounds like her whole front and back are missing. Darn that woman for losing two of the body parts that it's the most improper to refer to. What to use… bottom and lady's region? I suppose I can say vaginal region, they use the word in those monologue poems after all, so it has gained some respectability. It still seems far too forward for a condolence letter. Orifices? No, too clinical. Perhaps…"

At this point Gregory was biting his own tongue, hoping to contain the rude chuckles that the one sided conversation stirred within. Gregory knew he had to interrupt; he was quite certain that if she continued in this vein of thought and actually began listing more random names for either body part in her serious and quivering old voice, he might explode with laughter and scare the woman the rest of the way into the grave. Managing the chuckles into a polite cough he interjected, "Perhaps you might try nether regions, Miss Gavone?"

With a start the woman looked up, the speed of her reaction nearly causing a pair of ancient gold framed reading glasses to slip off their precarious perch on the end of her nose. Vivid blue eyes peered out through the polished lenses, their stark vibrant shade perhaps the only color on the entire woman to not have faded with age. She looked at him, clearly confused a moment, before offering a distracted smile in greeting.

"An excellent suggestion young man, nether regions will do quite nicely." Her free hand quickly made the correction, before she closed the book with a resounding clap. Finished, she carefully set book and pen down on the table before returning her piercing gaze to her guest.

"And who might you be young man? No wait; do let me guess. Charles let you in without introduction so I must know you from somewhere. The accent is most familiar, English obviously, but not the same region as Phillip. That hair is so very familiar…and those eyes, so distinctive, and such a handsome shade of brown…that look…I know that look! Oh my stars! Is it you Gregory?" she at last reasoned, and delight warmed her voice as she sprang to her feet with a spryness that belied her age. Arms wide she walked over to him and wrapped him in a surprisingly strong hug, though she had to reach upward to give him her traditional Fosterage greeting embrace.

"What a delight to see you again young man, my you've grown so!"

"Indeed, that happens to boys, or so they tell me," he responded with a cheeky grin, resting his head against the stiffly tied bun. His arms returned the embrace gently, handling the fragile seeming old woman with exaggerated care.

"Well I see your manner hasn't changed, at the least. Now let me look at you better," she parted from the hug to step back and continue taking him in. He had indeed grown though in truth he had changed less when compared to his true form, than when he had adopted a child's body to appear an eight year old boy. Now he almost looked as he did in angel form, not short but by no means a giant, perhaps three inches shy of six feet. While he had been forced to make himself almost scrawny as a younger boy; his frame had required almost no changes taking on his current form. Now even through the woolen sweater the solid and gentle curve of a young man's chest was visible and the arms that had enclosed the woman were firm if a bit thin. His hair had changed not a whit, still a hopeless tangle of golden curls forcibly combed backwards. His eyes also were unchanged, maintaining that strange hint of age and knowing to them that sometimes made even the ancient woman now examining him feel like she was the younger one betwixt the two.

"So," she began at last having taken Gregory's measure, "what brings you back to us after all these years young man? Another 'brief' excursion from Yardale, perhaps?"

"A brief excursion yes. My performance at home has been sufficiently satisfactory, and I've been encouraged to travel and experience a few things here," he evasively answered. He could lie if he had to; there were just divine repercussions for doing it, especially if it was said to someone genuinely honest or trusting. Instead he opted to stretch the truth and hope she took the hint. There actually was a Yardale, or had been in the earlier part of the 1900's at least, and during his time there to watch over a troubled youth, he had indeed maintained a 4.0 grade point average as he'd mentioned to other children before.

"I see your answers haven't changed either," she kindly reproached him for his unsaid words letting him know she wasn't as fooled or distracted as she once had been.

"You will be staying here wont you? Of course you will. And for longer than two months this time I hope." She answered her own question as he suspected she might, her voice brooking no argument.

"I shall have to call Charles to bring us some tea. Oh Charles," she near shouted the last word only to have the door spring open as soon as the name was said. The serving man arrived with silver tray and porcelain cups already in hand, a still steaming teakettle nestled between sugar cubes and cream saucer. Without batting an eyelid in surprise at the near instantaneous response, Madame Gavone sat herself down at the table clearing some space with a distracted sweep of her hand while motioning Gregory to take a seat across from her. "So you'll want to stay in your old room perhaps?"

"Yes ma'am that would be most wonderful if it wouldn't be a bother," he replied humorously amused that even in her rapid efficient manner she was still at least five minutes behind Charles and with not a clue. Charles did not react in the slightest, merely laid each cup before one of them, poured the tea, and doctored it to their tastes without needing instruction. Two sugars, no cream for Gregory. One small dollop of cream and one sugar for the Madame. Afterwards he walked over and moved the papers she had displaced to neat stacks; a continuation of his unending attempts to combat disorder in the house.

"No bother, none at all dear. Charles and I have so little to occupy us these days. Why I don't think we have anything going on at all today. Charles would you please prepare his room?"

"I will get to it immediately Madame. I would also remind Madame that she has a meeting of the 'People Against a Third Canadian American War' meeting with Ms. Testaburger and young Ike this afternoon. Also Master Phillip will be bringing Mr. Stotch home to join you in a game of cards and dinner this evening," Charles smoothly reminded her of her other engagements, while simultaneously offering Gregory a polite warning of the upcoming schedule that he might prepare himself.

A surge of conflicting emotions greeted Wendy's name, but Gregory roughly forced them aside rather than deal with studying them. Instead he flashed Charles a look of gratitude, before directing a query to the lady of the house.

"Are you sure I won't be a bother to you if I stay? It seems the Fosterage and you have become a bit busier over the years."

Miss Gavone dismissed the concern with a wave.

"Nonsense my dear boy. There's always room here for you, or anyone who needs a place. Besides my dear, this will work out wonderfully for everyone. I'm sure you've missed the other children. Phillip will be delighted to have another Englishman around again, and of course you should recall Wendy. She wandered by here quite a few times after your sudden departure, quite distraught with your disappearance. Nowadays she still stops by every now and then to help me on some of my more political endeavors, especially if they're against something that Cartman rogue is scheming. Vibrant mind in that girl's head, always so helpful. And speaking of helpful, I do hope Christophe stops by, of course you'll want to see him again! He was as at least as concerned as Wendy as to where you'd gone off to! And oh you must have missed all the children from school. Perhaps I should throw you a welcome back gala…" her eyes took on that distant look that signaled the beginnings of a grand scheme.

Several more emotions flared up, most of them uncomfortably unfamiliar to Gregory; including one very unexpected flash of warmth from the mention of Christophe's name. Gregory was not quite sure what was going on in his head, though in his defense, it had been quite some time since he'd been in a human body, and far, far longer since it was a teenager one. Still there was no time to sit down and think all of it through just yet, not when Madame Gavone was eagerly setting herself up for what looked like a rather enormous party. _That wouldn't exactly be the most subtle of entrances back into South Park, and definitely would not make my job any easier. _With alarm Gregory headed the idea off before it could catch momentum.

"Please ma'am. That's unnecessary! I'm very worn out from my trip here, and not sure I'm up to such a large affair. A small informal dinner would be far more enjoyable, I'd rather renew acquaintances singly either here or at school, rather than have to endure a mass reunion with everyone at once."

"Of course dear," she sighed and to Gregory's immense relief, she let the idea go. "Still you will give an old woman the pleasure of first chance catching up with you until school lets out and the other children begin to arrive, wont you? There's so much that's happened to us both I'm sure. You must have stories to tell, and there have been so many things going on around here you've missed!"

"That'd be fine, let's start with all thing things you've been up to here at the Fosterage," Gregory volunteered, knowing that if he could get her started, the woman would have enough stories to take days to recount. There was no possible way she'd finish before Wendy arrived, and he'd not have to fabricate or dance around the truth of his own activities over the past years just yet.

She shot him an 'I know what you're doing,' look but as the ever polite hostess, was unable to refuse a direct request from a guest. That and she truly did love talking about her projects; there had been some truly grand ones since he'd left.

"Well, let's see there was the Committee for the Equalization and Protection of Mariachi bands that I started after the Pan Flute bands were all reintroduced and the government started shipping out competing musical genre's a few years back to overcompensate. That was all of course before they found out that Mariachi bands were holding back giant Chihuahua beasts. The hardest places hit during that nightmare were the Taco Bells on the west coast; the monsters seemed to take particular delight in stomping and piddling all over the things. So then I just had to initiate a Taco Bell Relief Fund…"

Gregory settled into his chair, making himself comfortable for the long morning and afternoon ahead of him. The woman paused briefly in her stories in the afternoon when Charles stopped in with a fully prepared lunch mere moments after they'd begun to feel the first pangs of hunger. Once the repast was over, she launched right back into a tale about her attempt to interest Green Peace in freeing the 'Family Guy' Manatees. Tragically their love of Family Guy exceeded their love of Manatee's, and apparently they were still loathe to help out South Park residents, citing something about 'no more sea mammals on the moon.' Charles returned a few more times delivering documents and posters from particularly interesting endeavors, usually just before Miss Gavone actually voiced any request, which Gregory was thankful for as it kept the stories moving and avoided pauses where he could be asked personal questions.

Gregory found himself feeling full both in his stomach and in a more emotional sense as he basked in the pleasant atmosphere of the Fosterage. It was difficult to hold onto the darker emotions of the day in such a place, especially as he was lifting his cup to his lips as often to hide an amused grin at some random story as he did to take a drink. He didn't quite catch the moment during the seemingly endless tales of disasters and projects when he finally felt at home, but eventually he realized he had relaxed into his new body and temporarily banished the ghosts of past lives to the secluded corners of his mind.

**

* * *

**The pleasant tranquility of the afternoon was shattered dramatically a few hours after lunch. Neither Gregory nor Madame Gavone heard the knock on the door downstairs, nor did they hear the speedy answer by Charles, and the subsequent directing of the two guests to the library. Thus the two in the upstairs library were unprepared for the whirlwind of fury that was an enraged Wendy Testaburger, entering the room with all the presence and fury of an Amazonian princess on the warpath. The door did not so much open, as fling itself violently out of her way as the teenager stormed in, her head facing not towards the room but back at the black haired, skinny youth that followed. It was to him that her furious words were directed, though her volume was loud enough to carry the tirade smashing through the quiet story the Madame had been telling. It was as startling as a brass marching band entering…well a library actually.

"Did you know he's instigating this war over syrup? Syrup! I don't care what he says, or what bullshit story he's telling the god damn town council, the fat asshole wants to invade Canada to lower the price of maple syrup. Ever since IHOP switched to generic instead of the Canadian stuff on their pancakes he's been scheming this up. That insensitive, fat, cruel, over-sized, mean-spirited, ball of la-…" Her tirade died in her throat as she registered the look of surprise that crossed that face of the small boy following her. Not as distracted as she had been, he had noticed that their meeting with Miss Gavone had an extra attendee this day, someone he'd never met before. Responding to the surprise, Wendy's head whipped around causing her hair to billow out behind her, much like a black cloak fanning out; as she actually examined the room she'd just crashed into.

A flush tinted her cheeks a blend of beige and pink, perhaps brought out in amazement or perhaps left over from the anger in her entrance, either way it was a visible rosy stain on her pale skin. Hair the same shade and sheen as a raven's wing in the sunlight settled from its flight to land in a solid sheet behind her. It gracefully fell from a hot pink beret, to frame her softly rounded face before disappearing behind delicate shoulders. Yet the delicacy was more illusion than reality, for there was a hint of iron in her nature that denied the softness of her slim waist and gentle curves. Even dressed in the almost silly combination of soft purple sweater and yellow skirt her natural grace and steadiness banished any impression of 'girlyness.' Above the light blush, two determined round eyes had locked on to the blonde in front of her. In recognition her hard amber irises melted to a liquid honey shade as delight washed away her foul temper for an instant. The transformation would have made for a lovely sight to set any young boy's heart fluttering, if the image hadn't been ruined completely by a dropped jaw, setting her normally prim mouth agape in a comical expression of surprise.

Retreating to his tried and true tactic of hiding a grin behind a tea cup, Gregory drew out the drink to gather his thoughts for something suitable to say in greeting. He was spared the trouble of finding the right words when a nearly audible click sounded as Wendy's jaw closed and her train of thought, so quickly derailed, finally found its way back on track.

"G-Gregory? Is that really you?"

"Why yes Wendy, I do believe it is me. It is good to see you again." No sooner where the words out of his mouth then Gregory wished them back in, certain he had just voiced his first lie since returning to a mortal body. He braced himself silently for the eventual retribution his angelic half would inflict upon himself for the untruth. Seconds turned into a minute and he was not accosted by a stabbing discomfort in his stomach, no awkward pain in his extremities, and no tickling chill down his spine. Clearly he had not lied; he had indeed missed her enough to wash some of the unpleasantness of their parting away. That little discovery caught him so unawares that the silence stretched out longer between them. _Does this mean I forgive what she said after the war? Or just that it doesn't matter after all this time? Did I really miss her that much? She was pretty…unique. Definitely not what I was used to dealing with. So self-sufficient, a hint of danger, a touch of instability, the same things that make South Park itself so fascinating. _

Throughout this pause of self-introspection, Wendy was equally silent; her own eyes mirroring his internal confusion, unknown thoughts and memories flashing through her own mind. No one knows how long they might have just stood there lost in their own little worlds, trying to cope with a reunion both had thought would never occur. No one knows, because after about a minute of awkward silence, the young boy behind Wendy finally decided he'd had enough of watching the two older kids staring into space like idiots, and interjected into the voiceless moment.

"So, I'm Ike, and this is Wendy, whom you obviously know. I guess you are Gregory, because G-Gregory would be a really lame name for your parents to have given you. Since no one else is finishing this I guess I have to. Gregory, Wendy is glad to see you again, I think. I can't tell since she's being quiet for the first time since the topic of Cartman came up an hour ago. Wendy, Gregory is obviously glad to see you because he said so. Now will one of you say something so we can move on to the other trivial things at hand like…I don't know…preventing a war?"

There was a very brief pause where still no one spoke, though Miss Gavone appeared on the verge if she hadn't been holding her stomach to suppress a most unladylike laugh. With a roll of his eyes that rather eloquently expressed his opinion of everyone over thirteen, Ike gave up and wandered over to the table to help himself to a left over sandwich.

After that awkward little speech, and subsequent dismissal by the young boy, both Gregory and Wendy locked eyes in chagrin. Gregory pounced on the very first thing he could think of to talk about, if only to prevent Ike from saying anything else. Unfortunately Wendy apparently had the same idea because no sooner had he tried to speak than she began stumbling over her own response.

"So what have you been up to since-"

"Of course I'm glad to see him you je-"

"I'm sorry I didn't mean to-"

"Oops, you were about to say-"

This was followed by another bout of awkward silence.

"Not again," Ike muttered softly from across the room.

Miss Gavone suddenly coughed strangely, in what sounded suspiciously like a poorly concealed laugh. Hearing the sarcasm of her companion, and the outburst from the older woman, Wendy turned to glare at Ike. In the distraction Gregory took the opportunity to speak unopposed.

"So," Gregory began slowly making absolutely certain Wendy wasn't about to start talking as well, "how have you been?"

"Fine, just fine. Things have been great."

"Great? In South Park? Things must have changed a great deal around here."

"Well not great, I mean the place goes to hell about once a week. Well not literally to Hell like when you were here. Just you know… going crazy. Still everything usually ends up about the same after all the mess gets cleaned up. So I guess I'm doing fine. How about you? Where have you been? What have you been up to?"

"I have been quite well. I've been back home with my…family. After that mess when I was here last they kind of wanted me to stay there for awhile."

"Where is your home?" Ike chimed in curiously.

Suddenly Gregory felt the full weight of the eyes upon him, as the innocent question from the small boy sparked the much more dangerous attention of both Miss Gavone and Wendy. Feeling quite trapped he discarded the vague answers he normally had ready, realizing that it was very unlikely both Wendy and Miss Gavone would allow him to slip so easily out of this one. Mentally he steeled himself to not show any visible signs of the pain that would follow the lie he was about to speak.

"Well actually I'm from-"

*CRASH*

The sound of a porcelain teacup making an abrupt acquaintance with a hardwood floor drew all attention from the squirming Gregory. Gregory joined everyone else in staring at the white shards on the floor at his feet though his expression was more one of guilt than surprise. He'd dearly love to pretend this had been an accident, but divine intervention loved to hide in coincidence, and he was familiar with this particular problem. In the span of seconds while he was focused on the lie he was preparing, his angelic subconscious had twisted to wakeful life. Finding the people in the room too honestly trusting, it had opted to act to prevent the breach of heavenly etiquette. With a life of it's own it had ever so slightly loosened the grip on his cup.

It all came down to a strange twist on an old adage. For Gregory's kind at least, it seemed 'Idle hands were more just the Devil's playground,' but an inner angel's plaything as well. In all probability this was due to their hand's closer acquaintance with Elios. Sometimes it could be fairly disconcerting, trying to be human and angel at the same time, especially when neither mixed particularly well. It was like blending oil and water, impossible to every completely combine them, not when the second you stopped stirring they started separating out again. And when they separated out, you might find that you only had half a hand in what your own body was doing.

"Char-" Miss Gavone began, only to be interrupted by the serving man's appearance at the door with trash can and cleaning rag in hand.

"I'll have it cleaned up in a moment Madame."

Completely unfazed at the speedy response, Miss Gavone smiled her gratitude while Wendy and Ike stared incredulously at the butler. _Apparently they don't spend that much time around here or they'd be used to Charles. Thank goodness, that means I won't have to spend much time hiding from them. Wendy's always been too curious. I'm sure if Ike's her friend he has the same traits in spades._ Such thoughts brought some slight relief to Gregory, who realized if he could survive till the end of the meeting, he might make it out of this relatively unscathed. It was also a slight balm to his conscience that the mess was quickly and efficiently removed with no long term repercussion beyond the tragic loss of the teacup.

"Well then. Where were we," Miss Gavone began as her considering gaze turned back to Gregory's abashed expression.

"He was gonna tell us about where he-" Ike began cheerfully as Gregory directed a glare at the youth.

"I should remind Madame that Master Phillip should be arriving within an hour, and Madame wished to be have time to prepare for company as Master Leopold would be joining us?" Charles interjected over top of the young Canadian. The words were sweet salvation to Gregory, who promptly shot the serving man perhaps the third of fourth look of silent gratitude that day.

"Oh my! How right you are Charles. Perhaps there will be more time for pleasantries later, but we should really get on with this meeting! Now I've been thinking on a way to prevent Cartman from presenting his case. My memory was triggered by something you said yesterday Ike, about the treaty from the Second Canadian American War. I believe you may be right; there was an amendment the Canadians insisted on, something about not allowing anyone from South Park to head or appear before a war committee ever again. I'm sure somewhere in these papers I've got a clipping or article or something about it." The sharp calculation faded to distracted consternation in Miss Gavone's expression as she began rapidly shuffling though her assorted papers on the table.

"If Madame would prefer, I took the liberty of procuring a copy of the actual treaty from the Records Office after your conversation yesterday." Charles withdrew a document from some hidden place within his serving man's uniform and set it on the table on his way out of the room.

"Why thank you Charles," she distractedly proffered just moments too late, as the door had already swung shut softly behind the departing pinnacle of efficiency. She adjusted her golden reading glasses before beginning to slowly pore over the document with no further attention on her guests. Realizing the search might take a few moments Gregory began surreptitiously edging towards the door, thinking to escape to his room in the distraction. Wendy's eyes shot up as soon as he began moving, and a single eyebrow rose in silent amused challenge at his childish attempt, almost daring him to try to get away. He found himself frozen, a deer in headlights, until Ike again shattered the awkwardness.

"It's Article VII, section 13," Ike relayed to the reading woman, in a strangely quiet voice, looking down at the table glumly.

"What a memory you have boy, you really are a little genius. Let's see section eleven…twelve…Ah here we are the 'Sheila Broflovski' clause."

For some reason a small blush crossed Ike's face at Miss Gavone's words. Gregory wondered if the embarrassment was over the compliment Miss Gavone had offered, but then Wendy turned away from Gregory, breaking her hypnotic gaze, to reach over and pat Ike's back consolingly.

"Don't worry Ike. This time it's definitely that asshole Cartman's fault, not your moms." The boy threw Wendy a rather grateful look for her understanding before he left his seat and joined Miss Gavone to read the document over her shoulder. The entire exchange reminded Gregory of Wendy's more endearing qualities, especially her ability to empathize with others so completely. On the other side of the table Wendy became aware of his attention, and threw him a warm smile as if she had read his mind, which was an idea that could send quite a few unnerving chills down his spine. For a moment he wondered why he had been so afraid of confrontation with her earlier considering how soft and genial her smile made her face. Then he saw something else there, hidden behind the pleasantness of her smile, a frank directness in her eyes that let him know she had not forgotten his earlier unanswered question. With a twinge of dismay Gregory suppressed the rather uncomfortable realization that nothing short of another coming of Hell was going to distract her next time.

_Then again she grew up in South Park; it's entirely possible she'd tell Satan to sit down and shut up until she got a straight answer from me. If she were much closer right now, she might reach out to hold me captive and forego the delay. I really should get out of here now, unless I fancy finding out what else I can accidentally destroy, or just how much telling this big of a lie is going to hurt._ Desperately Gregory seized his one chance at escape.

"Perhaps, I might take my leave now, Miss Gavone? I had a bit a hike to get here, and I could use a chance to relax and settle into my quarters. Especially if there's to be socializing this evening." _Safe enough words there. No lie for sure, my feet have definitely not forgiven me yet for choosing such a distant glade. I certainly can't smell like a rose garden either after all that hiking to get here. And at this moment I most definitely do feel the need to relax, preferably with a few locked doors between me and Wendy until I can figure a few things out._

Miss Gavone looked up, allowing the smallest hint of disappointment to show at the idea of his departure. For a rare instant, she'd had a meeting with almost four members in attendance, quite a bit above average for one of her endeavors.

"I suppose so dear. If you really feel you need the time to settle in."

"I'm afraid I do. Ike, very interesting to meet you. Wendy, I suppose we shall run into each other at school?"

Ike offered a very distracted wave, quite like Miss Gavone herself in his focused tendencies. Wendy however, latched on to Gregory with her amber eyes, freezing him to the spot yet again, clearly weighing the option of making a scene and forcing him to stay. Just as he was sure she would do just that and the hint of sweat was beginning to bead on his brow, Ike found something exciting in the document and grabbed her hand. Startled by the contact, for the second time the boy saved him from her disturbing power as she looked at the youth with a tolerant smile.

Gregory seized the moment to execute a most hasty retreat. The door was almost shut behind him, when Wendy's reply reached his ears.

"I will definitely see you at school Gregory. We have so much to talk about."

The words were said in the sweetest of tones, and Gregory had no doubt she had the most innocent smile on her face when she said them. He had no intentions of turning around to verify this; however, not when he was also certain he'd be forced to face the teasing threat hiding just under the surface of her genial manner. Feeling caution was most definitely the better part of valor in this case; he pretended not to hear her parting shot at all and marched quickly towards the safety of his room.


	8. Ch 7: Deception at the Gate

**A/N: **New chapter up. Not too much to say for this one except I truly hope you like my decision concerning Lee and Jen. I agonized for hours over appropriate 'voice's' for them before settling on the one I felt would just work perfectly with Damien.

Thank you so much for the new alerts and favorites! Of course it goes without saying that I'm exceptionally grateful to those of you who provided reviews or private messages with such insightful comments and questions! All of you have no idea how much I appreciate the feedback. But I appreciate each of you even the ones who only have the time to just read. I still get pretty excited whenever the website lets me know the newest chapter got another visitor or hit!

Much love,

Sky

* * *

"If you're going through Hell, keep going."Winston Churchill

WPW Chapter 7: Deception at the Gate 

Damien's escort cut a straight path through the sulfurous skies, approaching their goal with rapid speed. Visible in the distance, their destination grew to stretch across the horizon, a monolithic hole in the wall and roof of Hell that yawned hungrily. It was a monstrous cavern, the gaping mouth of Hell, the entrance to the raging inferno, the Obsidian Gate. While technically it was possible to leave Hell from anywhere, such a departure required you to be called by someone outside. Likewise you could be forced back down, if you truly belonged there, from anyplace in the world's above. Excluding the acts of banishment and summoning, however, all traffic traveled only through the cavernous portal that let out onto the near endless plains of Limbo. Once at Limbo you could walk to the Pearly Gates if you were willing to make the trek, or with the proper preparations cross the veil completely leaving behind the realm of the dead, to surface at keyed locations in the world of the living.

Far too soon for Damien's taste they reached the tunnel's mouth. The steady pleasant sensation of gliding gave way to the lurching of wing strokes, as the four angels carrying passengers descended. The three unburdened Fallen scattered, two backtracking their path, the other entering the Gate. The burdened angels touched down with varying expressions or relief, clearly tired from their journey. All save for Azazel that is, who looked as if he could have managed the trip a few more times without concern.

As soon as Cerberus's angel touched down, the dog was dropped unceremoniously onto the ground. Angel and dog traded looks of mutual disdain, the angel rubbing an array of scratches on his arms. With a most serious, "Woof," Cerberus seemed to imply that he wasn't in the least bit sorry, _it is no less than you deserve for pulling a stunt like that_. Turning away from the Fallen with a sniff, he sought out his master. Spotting the boy, Cerberus loped over to Damien, seeking a sympathetic pat for his suffering. Still dazed and dreamy from the flight Damien absently scratched the head that bumped his hand. The distracted touch was insufficient for Cerberus. The option of whining to get a more vigorous petting was debated, then tossed aside, as Cerberus realized he had probably gotten all the sympathy he'd get at this moment. He decided it would be best to put the whole thing behind him and investigate his surroundings in the traditional doglike fashion of tail up, nose down.

Damien himself was also taking in the view, stepping away from the cluster of angels to approach the Obsidian Gate. It was the second time he'd seen it, and though he'd nearly doubled in size, the Gate still loomed monstrous above him. Last time here he'd been so excited to leave Hell he hadn't taken the time to fully appreciate the view and now he inspected the Gate with a more curious eye. Technically the term 'gate' was an inappropriate affectation, for it was not, as the entrance to Heaven was, adorned with parapets, towers and gilded fencing. Instead the Gate was left in a natural state, a rocky and misshapen passageway stretching upward like a gigantic funnel with the narrow end facing Limbo and a mouth large enough to march an army through facing Hell. The wind would howl through the spiked and jagged rock formations that dotted the Gate's ceiling and floor, picking up pace as it was squeezed outward through the smaller exit on Limbo's side. The effect was similar to that of hot sulfurous breath slipping between the teeth of some mythic giant in an unending shriek.

_No wonder the souls are so freaked out by the time they arrive in Dis. I can see why the Fallen still force them to walk the whole way through the Gate, before providing transport for the rest of the journey to Dis. Speaking of transport, where's the ferryman?_ Damien looked around as he finished the thought, searching for the tall grim figure of Charon, whom he had met the first time he'd come here ten years ago.

Charon was another of those beings that had wandered here from the Greek underworld. Damien had often over the past years wondered what the ferryman might be able to tell him about Cerberus if he could ever arrange a second meeting. Judging by the complete lack of people waiting at the Hell side of the Obsidian Gage, he would have to remain wondering, for clearly they'd just missed the departure of Charon, still practicing his ancient trade. The Fallen had found the spirit highly useful, using him to shuttle the dead on his strange boat, sweeping the souls from Gate to Dis, safe from the ravenous demons that wandered the hellish countryside.

_At least that means no people to bug us with, "Why me?" and "I don't belong here!" _Damien temporized to downplay the disappointment of having missed his opportunity to quiz the ferryman. It seemed every soul that arrived to Hell switched back and forth between self-pity and self-righteousness for months before adjusting to their new circumstances. Damien saw no reason for all the melodramatics. Compared to Damien's life theirs was a paradise. At least they'd spent some time in the world above. They'd gotten a chance to live their life how they wanted to and considering they'd been sent to Hell, probably had quite a bit of fun living it. Besides, Dis wasn't that bad a place, at least not compared to what things would be like without the Fallen. If the demons ruled, the souls would really have something to cry about the way those entities fed off pain and agony like it was the sweetest of foods. The Fallen were head and shoulders above such even if their version of torment was forcing everyone to live in their monotonously dull domain. As long as you didn't disturb the Fallen, you were pretty free to do whatever you wanted in Dis, unless you were unlucky enough to have Satan for a father. Even then Dis was a far cry better than the Shining City unless you were just obsessively into fluffy clouds, blinding light, and harp music. The image brought a shudder to Damien, he detested soft music, and years of living in the dim fiery glow of Hell left him uncomfortable in bright light as well.

_Besides_, he mused_, angels are angels no matter what color the wings. There are more than enough of them in Dis_. The idea of being around twice as many in Heaven was horrifying. Worse each heavenly angel was probably infinitely more insufferable than a fallen one, with all the constant sucking up to God and the endless games of Divine kiss-ass.

_On the topic of angels I should get back to mine. _Damien turned away from the ominous orifice to observe his escorts. The three scouts had returned and Azazel was gesturing and talking animatedly with the squad. Damien returned to the gathering, catching the end of the commander's orders.

"-once you three reach Limbo, spread away from the gate in different directions as fast as possible. Make a lot of noise, toss some demonic energy around, and make it very random and unfocused. Once you've gotten a few miles from the gate, use the scrolls Penemue gave you and get the hell back to the Gate as quickly and silently as you can. With luck the heavenly Host won't get a lock on anything till the demons pop through the summoning gates. They'll assume the demons caused the whole mess. Then we all come out of the Gate nice and obvious, snap the demons back to Hell, and retreat like Michael was on our tails with the entire Host behind him. They'll assume the revolution is getting out of hand. A few feathers will get ruffled, and the entire city will be on edge watching us instead of the spot where God's pretty ass used to rest. In all the commotion no one notices Damien slipping away and a few new mortals making their way into South Park. Any questions?" no angel spoke. Rarely did one of the Fallen in Azazel's army need an order given twice. "Good, then get moving."

The three dismissed angels removed their plate armor rapidly, before flying away in only ash grey kilts. Damien could make out the scrolls surrounded by the heat ripples of contained demonic energy tucked in their belts. The rest of the angels gathered up the discarded gear and began to march through the Obsidian Gate by foot. Lee and Jen followed silently, and Cerberus seeing everyone on the move ran back to pace at Damien's side. Their march through the Gate was uneventful, though Damien did have to fight the constant sensation of invisible cobwebs brushing his face. The Obsidian Gate did not let mortals pass in reverse, and while Cerberus, Legion, and the Fallen might walk through relatively unmolested, at least by hellish energies, Damien's half mortal heritage triggered the Gate's natural defenses. If he'd been fully human the sensation would not have been one of discomforting brushes of something nebulous against his face and arms, but chains of molten steel entangling his limbs, weighing him down in agony until he had no choice but to retreat back down the dark tunnel.

Once they'd reached the far entrance to the tunnel, Azazel halted the party, kneeling down to one knee as he surveyed the vast plains of waving tall grass and thick swirling mists. Limbo was lit by a soft grey pervasive light that washed everything to a duller shade. There was no visible source of this light in the sky, and no particular corner of the grey sky above seemed brighter than any other. Every direction looked the exact same, a rippling sea of grey green fronds rising and falling above the level of the mist. The only breaks in this pattern were patches of freshly overturned soil, where the grass had recently been burned and earth charred. Clearly these were the handiwork of the Fallen who'd flown out ahead.

With one hand balancing on Mortis, Azazel was as rigid as a statue, patient and still in his wait. With such an unmoving companion Damien quickly grew bored, trying to count the seconds in his head. He quickly gave up; it was as hard to detect the passage of time as it was to determine a sense of direction in the realm that gave true meaning the concept of endlessness. Still time must have passed faster than Damien thought, for all too soon he felt the cavelike entrance shiver with a thunderous crashing sound. A wave of air flattened the grasses of the plains, the wind rushing towards them with physical force. The gusting impact pushed Damien backwards towards the gaping mouth of the Gate behind him. In a flash Azazel reached out with his free hand, steadying the boy with little effort. A quick look at the angel with gratitude revealed that Azazel was paying no further attention beyond holding the boy in place, distracted as he was by counting softly under his breath. The phenomenon repeated a second and third time, before at last Azazel reacted, standing and using his grip on Damien to bring the boy face to face with him.

"This is the moment boy, time to give you this," he reached into a pouch at his side and pulled out a small grey coin which he handed to Damien. "Just turn the key to open the gate, it will tear a way through the Veil. But be very careful using it. Penemue's set it to get four of you through very quietly. The catch is it's only quiet on the side of the Veil you're departing from. No one in Limbo, Heaven, or Hell will even get the tiniest hint of it over the ruckus we're about to create, and with luck anyone on the other side is going to be completely focused on all this mess too. What that really means is you don't use this to come back unless it's the last resort. If you use it coming from Earth every celestial being above and below is going to hear that gate rip open on this side. Depending on how far it places you from here you might not even make it to Hell before everyone who cared to snap up the son of Satan was hot on your heels, or worse waiting at the Gate if it's one of the Demon Princes.

"You should arrive roughly where Satan came through in his prior attempt to seize Earth, since the Veil is weakest there still. If reports from the demons that went through with Satan are reliable, you should only have a few hours walk before you're in South Park. A house has been purchased and set up by satanic agents in the earthly realm; Legion will know how to get there. If you need to talk to us Penemue will check in through Lee and Jen as regularly as he can. I suspect he will attempt to contact you at least on every Sabbath. He always likes to do his most important work on God's day of rest."

Azazel moved his grip to Damien's shoulder and applied a firm squeeze, meaning to calm the trembling nervousness he felt in Damien's frame. Unfortunately with the angel's great strength he ended up leaving Damien more worried about a bruise than feeling particularly reassured.

"Be safe boy and try to learn something. I didn't just insist on this course of action so you'd be out of the city when the fighting starts. You never know what kind of person you are inside until you're standing on your own without others to catch you when you fall." Azazel's eyes grew distant then, thinking back to the day he'd left his own safety line behind, casting aside the reassurance of Heaven to stand with Lucifer. "The lessons don't get any easier now, but you'll get more out of these than you ever did those books. Penemue forgets whose son you are sometimes, with these attempts to make you into just another of the Fallen. The Morningstar wasn't one of us, he was something more. If he hadn't been we'd all be up there still, bending knee and bowing heads at every divine whim. I see that spark of outrage when you chafe at doing something because you're told to. I see it and remember the face of your father when God told him to kneel to man. Keep that pride close, but try to find the balance between doing what you must do for yourself, and what you must do for others. Duty is something all angels know and need, even a half angel. It is a burden we all toil endlessly under. Yet if it's the right Duty, you'll find you can be something greater under its yoke than you ever could be reckless and carefree. For now though it's time to taste that freedom and get out of the nest. I hope you learn to fly before you reach the ground boy."

Damien stared in shocked silence listening to the longest speech the gruff angel had ever given him. He tried to think of something grave and serious to say in response, but in that moment the three unarmored Fallen returned from their separate directions, bodies drenched in sweat at the exertion to get there and all but crashing to the earth in their landings. With no pause for rest they began donning armor while Azazel walked away from Damien his soft voice gone as his tone rose in the sharp ring of command.

"You've been putting that armor on and off for a thousand years, I'd think you could do it faster by now Sammael. Everyone form up quickly now. Zemos, stop breathing like a winded horse. The Fallen don't pant and gasp when they fly to battle! Stand straight! I want precision; I want us knocking these things down fast. We hit them two from above, two from each side, I'll engage the front. All of Heaven's going to be watching the show boys. I want them sweating and twisting their togas into a bunch worrying if this is a sign that we're going to march on their precious city. Let's give them a real scare."

The sentiment was not just idle boasting on Azazel's part. Even at a mere seven, this would be the largest gathering of Fallen outside of Hell since they'd been cast down. The forces of Hell that had marched on Heaven's gate a few years back had been composed only of demons, for the Fallen had balked at taking orders from Satan's mortal lover. They'd turned from God's grace once rather than let man be placed above them, and they'd not endure the price of that transgression just to do follow another mortal worm tamely just because Lucifer was bedding him.

_The angels of the Host really might be shitting golden bricks before this is over_, Damien considered, feeling far more confident that he'd pull his part off of this performance off undetected. Meanwhile Azazel was wrapping up his speech, his voice rising into a roar as the last angel finished strapping on his gear.

"Let them see that we don't need to hide behind little boys and golden PSP's when we deal with demons. Show them how we've kept Hell in check while they grown soft and slow at Heaven's table. I want us through with all of this and sitting back in Dis cleaning off our blades, before Michael and Raphael have finished figuring out where they stashed their swords. On my lead standard formation, I'll take point; we head to the demon to the south first. Mark!"

Seven angels, black on unforgiving black, save for the leader in shadowed crimson, vaulted into the air as one. At the height of their leaps wings snapped outward from their backs in a single unified motion. With a sound akin to that of a giant ship's mainsail filling with wind, mighty thrusts carried them skyward. The storm of their departure set the grasses of the plains madly writhing. Cerberus barked and followed along in the angel's shadows, excitedly leaping and giving chase. Damien watched them go, aching with every fiber of his being to join them in their graceful deadly flight. His heart was still racing when the last dark dot disappeared into the mists and Cerberus had given up the game to run and snap at the unsettled grasses, tongue lagging happily. Appropriately enough Cer had shifted into a German shepherd sometime during Azazel's militant departure.

Snapping back to himself, Damien turned to see Lee and Jen staring at him expectantly; well he assumed it was expectantly, they were hard to read with their empty eyes and unchanging mouths.

"Well, mom and dad," he tested the words and found them distasteful, "I think I'll stick to Lee and Jen actually. Plenty of kids do that by my age. It's time for us to go too. Cer!"

Stiff ears perked at his name and Cerberus abandoned his game to run back to his master. Meanwhile Damien examined the coin in his hand. On one side was engraved a picture of the Obsidian Gate with a ring of angelic script around the outside. Damien recognized most of the symbols but didn't bother trying to translate. The angelic tongue was a difficult one where every word changed meaning depending on the words before and after, which could in turn change the meaning of those further away all depending on the order in which they were read. Reading such script was a slow and involved process, as everything angelic tended to be. Damien did not think he had the time to work through it now. Instead he turned the coin over to examine the other side which bore the image of a stylized ancient looking key also surrounded with script. Not entirely sure what to do he turned to Lee and Jen wondering if either of the demons might know how to operate it.

"I don't suppose you know how to use this," he asked. If they had any knowledge they showed no hint of it in their impassive expressions. Returning to the coin, he idly flipped it over again.

"He said; just turn the key, but turn which way?" He tried to turn the coin in a fast circle both left and right with key side down, and then repeated the process with key side facing up. All attempts were met with no response from the coin. Finally he decided to try a bit more unorthodox of a method, flipping the coin into the air as if to play a game of heads or tails. Under the fast rotation, the old trick where both sides of a spinning object seemed present at once made it appear as if the key was centered squarely in the gate. The only clue he'd done the right thing was in a small flash of light as the coin hit the height of its arc and then vanished.

"What the hell," Damien said completely ignoring the inherent humor in his use of the phrase. "Did the damn thing forget about us? How are we sup—" the rest of his words were cut off when he felt a lurching sensation beneath his feet as if the earth was tilting like the deck of a storm tossed ship. He felt himself falling forward though his feet informed him they were still firmly planted on the ground. Then when he was certain he'd have hit some surface if he truly was falling, his vision grew dark and he knew nothing more.

**

* * *

**Damien woke shivering to the unpleasant sensation of something wet on his face, the echoing of some distant trumpeting sound ringing in his ears. Uncertain as to how to handle the sound in his head he moved to deal with the other sensation first. One hand wiped at his face brushing off the cold moisture. Underneath him the disturbingly soft ground gave when his body shifted to clean his face.

Again something wet landed on his face, stinging slightly for a second when it touched. He brushed the sensation away again, this time with irritation, before opening his eyes. The sky was dark, far darker than when the soot clouds got their thickest. Flickering at the edge of his vision, he could barely make out quickly spinning flecks of white. The dots were moving madly around him as if the stars he'd been taught about had been cut loose and were now spinning madly around him. He flinched as one drifted straight at him to land on his face. Again he felt the wet sting. A flash of memory from his last visit to Earth explained the phenomena to his startled mind. _Snow! I made it through alive. I'm finally back on the earth… and it's snowing! This is awesome!_

The plaintive whining of Cerberus broke through his dazed and happy thoughts. A Saint Bernard nudged the side of his head. With one hand he reassured the worried beast while he planted his other hand on the ground to help him sit up and get a better view. He jerked the stabilizing hand back in shock when he felt it turn numb with cold. He looked around at the world washed in white, and shivered as a wet cold feeling of numbness began creeping inward from the edges of his body. _Shit. All that time missing snow,_ he mused, _you'd think I'd have remembered how damned cold it was._

He jumped out of the white slush that had been melting around his body, moving quickly to warm himself up as he took stock of his surroundings. Cerberus balanced and hopped oddly at his side, trying to keep his legs out of the snow. It was a comical act since anytime he tried to lift a new leg free, one of the others had to be put back down. The game was causing him no end of consternation. Finally he planted all four paws solidly into the snow admitting defeat and then leveled an expression of long suffering on the master that had put him through such an unnecessarily exciting day. A few meters away, Lee and Jen watched them, both standing in the same stance and position as they had on Limbo's plains. Still shivering, Damien considered their empty expressions, and briefly envied their quick recovery from the shift between Limbo and Earth as well as their ability to apparently ignore the cold. Unbidden the question crossed his mind. D_o they feel or react to anything? Might as well try a question again._

"I don't suppose you know which way South Park is from here? Or where were going when we get there?"

Without a word Lee and Jen turned as one and began walking away from him.

"Hey wait! That isn't an answer. Do you really know where you're going? How can you tell if that's the right way," Damien shouted at their backs. Neither of the two replied nor slowed their pace. They seemed quite indifferent to whether or not he was following.

"Demons," he said at last rolling his eyes and putting a world of disgust and dislike into the word.

Beside him Cer gave a short woof of agreement as it warily watched the two depart.

"We better catch up with them, Cer. I hope Penemue hammered some sense of direction into those hollow skulls of theirs."

Cer merely turned to stare at Damien, clearly waiting for the boy to move ahead first. If his master wanted to put him through all of this trouble, Damien could do the work of plowing a path through the snow for them both. Damien caught the sentiment if not the exact meaning behind the stare and chuckled before gamely leading the way leaving a slightly clearer path for the poor beast.

As he walked he felt another wet impact of snow a few moments later, the cold shock landing on his neck. This time he resisted the urge to flinch or wipe it away. Instead he smiled as he savored the pin point burst of cold then the tickling sensation of the water flowed along his skin. Even with the chilling cold and the deadening of nerves that was slowly crawling up his legs, Damien felt more alive and aware than he had in a very long time.

**

* * *

**By the time they reached outskirts of town Damien's pleased mood was gone and he was more than ready to go back to Hell, at least for a short visit to warm up. His feet were sore from rubbing against his soaked shoes and an aching stiffness had settled on his fingers, his nose, his ears, basically any part of him that had the misfortune to extend away from his body's central heating. He was finding it hard to remember why he'd actually missed being on Earth. _Jesus-fucking-Christ this sucks. Why in God's name did he have to pick this place to live? Couldn't Christ find someplace warmer that was just as exciting? Plenty of weird shit happens in Florida. Lots of hurricanes, crazy old people, zany political mayhem during election years, nearby supply of Cubans to replace the Canadians…Miami could be just as good as South Park._

Lee and Jen had maintained their pace with no consideration for the suffering of the two following them. If Damien had possessed any clue as to where they were going he'd have happily left the two to their own relentless march and stopped to rest half a dozen times by now. Instead the only distraction he had from the pain in his feet was to spend time thinking about the pain in his fingers. He longed for the freedom to at least summon a small flame to his hands wishing for the comforting burn of fire to combat the stinging burn of frost. Still Penemue's warning held him back, '_not unless you must Damien. Demonic power may not immediately give you away, but every attempt risks the attention of someone. Once they know to look it will only be a matter of time before they find you.'_

At last they crossed into the suburbs and Damien knew some relief when his feet stepped onto the sidewalk. Travel became easier then as they now moved on paths covered only in a light layer of freshly fallen snow rather than several inches of unstable powder. Cerberus was even happier than Damien with the change, now able to travel beside the boy instead of navigate through the broken slush behind. A nose nuzzled one of Damien's sore hands and a furry head rubbed against his stiff fingers. Damien accepted the suggestion gratefully forcing his fingers to flex a few times to lose some of their rigidity before letting them tangle in the thick insulating fur.

Again thinking back on life's recent changes with regret, Damien wished Cerberus was still big enough to carry him. Finishing this trip riding on the back of a giant, warm, furry beast as he did when he was younger would do a lot to ease the displeasure he was feeling. His fingers twitched unbidden and for a second a hint of sparking light flared at their tips. Cerberus swelled outward and upward in response to the unvoiced thought. Damien jumped back snatching his hand away from Cerberus quickly as his eyes widened in surprised. Instantly Cerberus slumped back down to his diminished size. The beast shook his head to dispel the discomfort of the rapid growth and subsequent shrinking.

Damien's thoughts raced as he considered the reaction. _I didn't do that did I? I don't think I did. Not consciously at least. Damn unpredictable demonic power. I can see why Penemue hates to rush things. I'm going to have to be extra careful if all it takes is 'wishing' to interfere with Cer's Working. I sure hope Penemue had plenty of time on his hands when he tampered with everyone's memory and bound Lee and Jen._

Clearing his mind of the uncomfortable thoughts he inspected Cerberus to make sure his friend had come to no harm. Cerberus inspected him right back shooting him a very reproachful glare.

"Are you mad at me for messing the spell up or because I stopped before I broke it completely?" Damien asked the disgruntled beast.

Cer let out an irate woof. Unfortunately no one happened to be around that was fluent in dog. If they had been they might have told Damien that Cerberus's response roughly translated too, 'Which_ do you think? I'm puny now damn it. I could barely chew off a demon's knees from down here!' _

Sadly there was no around to help bridge the language barrier and Cer was coming to the unhappy conclusion that Damien was not about to repeat the experiment. Giving up for the moment on having the spell disrupted for good Cerberus turned his attention back to the two demons that were supposed to be leading them. Neither had stopped not even to look back and see what had caused the commotion. If they did not catch up soon the two would be out of sight. Cerberus raced forward hoping Damien would take the hint and realize that their 'damned guides,' in both the figurative and literal sense, were getting away.

"Hey Cer wait, I'm sorry! Where are you going? Oh fuck! The demons! Lee, Jen?! Damn it you two what good is getting there without me?! "

Now trailing behind Damien had to start a light jog to catch up with the others. His feet protested the new pace viciously. Feeling what must surely be blisters in the making Damien was almost ready to try a more drastic approach at getting the two demons to stop using pyrotechnics if necessary, the highly flammable houses nearby and his promise to control his powers be damned. Fortunately the two figures ahead finally stopped and amazingly enough turned to face him. Not quite trusting this unexpected change he ignored the urge to slow down and closed the distance quickly. Though they were finally looking at him again they were still as expressionless as statues in response to his arrival. Cerberus at least wagged his tail a little when Damien finally reached them letting Damien know he was already forgiven for their earlier exchange.

"So, why'd you stop?" He asked the question reflexively not really expecting an answer from his irritating guides.

"We're home son!" Lee responded his voice surprisingly cheerful and mellow, a direct rip-off of some overly pleasant sitcom father from the '50s. His face split into a wide grin that was ten times more disturbing than the vacant expression it replaced. Damien almost jumped in surprise and from beside the demon Cerberus actually did jump, leaping to his feet. By the time Cer landed the Saint Bernard had become an irate German Shepherd barking wildly at Lee.

"Dear please quiet your dog. He might wake the neighbors and we don't want to make a bad impression do we!?" Jen sweetly suggested in a light sugary voice. She cocked her head to the side eyes twinkling merrily.

"Son?! Wake the neighbors?! What the Hell did Penemue do to you guys?!" Damien felt what few shreds of sanity he'd managed to hold onto through the harrowing day of sweeping life changes slip through his fingers.

Lee frowned thoughtfully reaching a hand out to clasp Damien's shoulder before speaking in a stern voice.

"You shouldn't use that kind of language sport! Especially in front of your mother. You don't want everyone to think you have a potty mouth do you? A dirty mouth means a dirty boy and when I talked like that my mom used to say the only cure for either of those things was a good washing with soap."

"No, absolutely not! I draw the line at sport! No fucking way! And if you come near me with a bar of soap, I'll torch your ass." Damien brushed the hand off his shoulder angrily before putting more space between himself and the two demons.

Jen stepped closer to Lee placing one hand on the other demon's shoulder. Lee responded by wrapping an arm about her waist. Now standing in a picture perfect portrayal of parental unity, Jen addressed Damien in a scolding tone.

"Don't talk back to your father dear. Everyone will think we raised you to be a spoiled brat. You don't want that do you?"

"Where did he get this stuff before he crammed it into you two!? Look...can we do this some other way? Tell me this cheesy fake parent crap is an act? You two do know you didn't raise me right?" at that both Lee and Jen opened their mouths to speak with twin looks of hurt on their faces. Horror settled into Damien when he realized just how thorough Penemue had been. _Taking no chances someone will see through them, by making sure there's nothing to see through._ Damien raised his hands to cut the answers he definitely did not want to hear from his transformed step-parents. "No don't. Please just…shut up a second. I…I need to think. You quiet down too Cer. I know it's weird but she's right. We don't want to wake everyone up."

Cer obeyed grudgingly, quieting his bark to a low and steady growl. The beast moved to stand protectively between Damien and the two demons. For their part Lee and Jen shared a worried look before turning to silently level matching expressions of parental concern at him.

_Oh for fuck's sake, I've been saddled with the Cleavers for parents. Penemue, when and if I ever get back to Dis, I'm going to kill you. I take that hug goodbye back a thousand times over. Why didn't you ask me for suggestions? I know you don't exactly have a lot of experience with parental behavior, it's not like my dad ever provided a good example. But still couldn't you at least have tried something more modern?! I'd settle for the Simpsons or even the Bundys right now. _

Exerting a considerable degree of control considering his frazzled nerves, Damien managed to calm down before hysteria set in. He came to the conclusion that the only sensible course of action was to go inside, find the first room that had an empty bed, get off his aching feet, and sleep until the world made sense again. If he was very lucky he might wake up from this nightmare tomorrow back in this plan hinged on getting inside and he was definitely shorthanded in the house key department.

Distastefully he considered the still patiently waiting Lee and Jen. He suppressed the urge to groan as he realized he'd need to interact with the two to get inside. With resignation he attempted a smile but only managed a pained grimace that showed far too many sharp teeth. He tried for as polite a tone as he could manage, which for Damien at this moment meant he sounded like he only wanted to maim them a little instead of outright kill.

"Can we just go inside. Now. Please!?"

"That's a swell idea sport! We don't want you to catch a cold now do we?" Lee offered a thumbs-up gesture to accompany his grinning agreement.

A red haze was settling over Damien's vision and he almost attacked Lee only to have the focus of his rage abruptly shift when Jen added her own opinion to Lee's commentary.

"And it's way past your bedtime young man. That's probably why you're so cranky."

Lee and Jen were back to smiling cheerfully having solved the mystery of their disgruntled son. They were oblivious to the hate clearly apparent in Damien's demeanor or the way his red eyes were taking on a rather fiery glow. They were completely unaware that they only lived because Damien couldn't figure out which one he wanted to kill first before they started walking towards the house.

Lee led the way pulling the house key out of the front pocket of a tweed coat. A tweed coat Damien could not remember him wearing when they'd started this trip. Jen stepped lightly behind him her hips taking on a ridiculously happy swish that Damien knew was a recent change after nearly three hours marching behind them and glaring at their identically rigid forms.

Damien held back not trusting himself to resist the tempting targets their backs made as they walked up the walk to their home. He counted to ten very slowly and then kept going for good measure. Only when the demons had moved inside, around forty seven or so, did he at last walk up the sidewalk to the open door. Cerberus lagged behind quite sure that nothing good was going to come of this new change but loyally following Damien just the same.

Before Damien walked inside he looked down at his furry companion glad to know he'd have some support through the ordeal ahead.

"Let's get this over with Cer. At least at this size you can come inside too. You're definitely sleeping in my room. Especially if were sharing a house with those two."

A tail wagged in appreciation of the idea of sharing a room as Cerberus finally found a faint silver lining on the unpleasantness of being small.

"Glad you approve. At least if I have you around, I think I can resist the urge to kill them. For a little while at least. But I swear, if he calls me sport again we're taking him out. I'll go for the throat. You go for the groin."

"Woof."


	9. Ch 8: A Glimpse of Eden’s Apple

**A/N: **I apologize deeply for the length and haste of posting this chapter. For roughly two weeks I've been writing and rewriting it, trying to find a balance between exposition, action, and description. Unfortunately there were just too many things to cover before the all important Interlude of the next chapter that marks the end of the first day and the beginning of all the real interaction between the many characters of South Park.

I was sorely tempted to delay this, unfortunately (well fortunately I suppose) I'm spending the weekend risking life and limb on the ski slopes with some friends. It was either submit this a day early, or two day's late, knowing I'd have precious little time to re-edit and review it personally after adding any of those last minute touch-ups or insights that might come.

Obviously I have chosen a day early to go with the more carefully reviewed work rather than the more impulsive option. May you enjoy the chapter all the same, especially the second half seeing as it finally brings one of the primary pairings out of the realm of "what-if" and into the light of day...er night actually. I do hope my debut into romantic implication does credit to the countless fantastic author's on this site whose work inspired me to tackle this story. It goes without saying I hope it doesn't disappoint you as well!

Assuming I survive the slopes I'll rejoin you all in about six days,

Sky

* * *

"For to tempt and to be tempted are things very nearly allied…whenever feeling has anything to do in the matter, no sooner is it excited than we have already gone vastly farther than we are aware of."Catherine the Great

WPW Chapter 8: A Glimpse of Eden's Apple 

The proudest of moments in the history of angelkind it most certainly was not. It probably rated right down there alongside forgetting to find unicorns for Noah's Arc and dropping the duck-billed platypus mold. Yet Gregory was sure even an Arch-Angel in his position might very well make the same choice, hiding in his room until absolutely certain the dangerous young Wendy Testaburger was safely out of the house. It was not that the girl would cause him physical harm, though the lies he might have to tell most certainly would. That alone would not be enough to cause this unease. It was not even that she might expose his secret if the lies purchased at such a painful cost failed to deceive her shrewd mind.

What it was the sheer overwhelming uncertainty she was generating within his normally resolute mind. Why couldn't he reduce the girl to something tangible, simple pros and cons, and determine how to handle her? She was causing discomfort within him, but was it a warning from his angelic side that she was dangerous? Or was it his human half reacting to something else? He was not ignorant of the concept of human sexuality, even if he had no personal experience. His suicidal charges weren't exactly attractive options and rarely did he take on a form long enough to get involved with those not the target of his Duty. Yet he'd been to this place before, these were not new faces, and she certainly wasn't one of the dangerously depressed.

So was this unanticipated reaction a subtle warning or base attraction? Or left over confusion from their awkward parting? What was he to do about it? More importantly might doing anything ruin the greater mission? There were so many ifs and maybes that Gregory was working himself into an unfamiliar and uncomfortable state. Indecision is not something angels enjoy; free will isn't exactly their 'thing.' This might be why one of the first phrases a new arrival to Heaven uses to describe their winged co-inhabitants involves some form of the terms, 'anal-retentive' or 'fussy-feathers.' Certainly either description fit Gregory's preferred state of mind and what was so wrong with that? There was a lot less worry about when everything had a purpose and a place. Not like now at all. What was one confused cog to do to keep the clock ticking the way it was supposed to?

Without his usual Duty to guide his human decisions, he was faced the three options that were practically swear words among the feathered guardians of Heaven; improvisation, innovation, and intuition. Gregory was in almost the same unhappy position he had been in last time he'd been sent to South Park. _Then_ _again compared to this time, even the last mission was simplistic_. _Then there had been at least an overall goal, a set command; 'do whatever you must to keep the blood of Terrence and Phillip from being spilled.' The solution had been surprisingly simple to figure out, work with the children who would surely slip under any notice and free the doomed Canadian duo. Even though the original idea failed, I was correct after a fashion, it was the children who had been the key to saving everything. _

But this time, there was no such luck. Christ had been so very vague; watch the people of South Park closely, keep them safe, report anything strange to me. What would be strange, or considering this was South Park, what wouldn't be? How was he supposed to determine who was or wasn't a tool of the dark ones? Was the curiosity behind Wendy's eyes innocent? Or was there an infernal spark at the heart of those amber flames?

This place was secure, and he clung to that certainty like the rock it was to his disturbed state. The savior himself trusted the Fosterage; they both had put a great deal of effort into keeping it solvent and safe, in case they might need it again. But beyond its walls and caretakers, who knew what might lurk within souls of South Park?

The Cartman boy was a prime suspect; a third war with Canada, any war actually, might have repercussions on the spiritual plane. The two sides of reality too often acted as mirror images, violence and disaster on one side echoing into the other. Things were already far too precarious in the spiritual world. So was Wendy automatically 'safe' because she opposed it? Unfortunately no, demons might be unsubtle but the Fallen were cunning, there was nothing to say they might not employ agents to both support and oppose a war. And who was to say the war was even a sign of a darker motive and not just another of those 'random oddities' that plagued the damned town? He dearly wished for ten more seconds of soul reading clarity. If only he had thought to more closely examine the townsfolk as an angel before taking on a mortal form and losing his higher senses.

_Should I switch back and examine them now?_ There were dangers in changing forms, it was a vulnerable and exposed time, and it was never wise to do it too often or too quickly. Who knows what might have sensed it and be lying in wait for the next attempt? Not all creatures of darkness were locked securely in Hell. Several monsters existed outside the restrictions and domains of Christendom, more than a few of that type lurked around the edges of places as unstable and chaotic as South Park.

In the end he opted for the safest route, to abstain for as long as possible from making a real decision. It was safer to hope for some clue, some insight, or perhaps even further guidance from the savior. Of course this meant avoiding Wendy, which brought him right back to where he was, shamefully hiding in his room. He sat on his bed, nerves on edge, waiting impatiently for the two guests to leave. Glowing yellow demon eyes seemed not nearly as fearsome as golden-brown irises lit with unknown purpose. Gregory remained cloistered for who knows how long, ostensibly to organize and refresh himself, while keeping one ear open to the sounds of the house.

Finally he heard the library door open. One pair of steps shuffled away towards the Madame's rooms and one set of feet wandered downstairs lightly and quickly. A third set, however, set all his fears to stirring as they moved not towards the stairs but the foster rooms, stepping with a more deliberate and measured pace. The feet wandered down the hallway slowly, undoubtedly trying to determine which door was Gregory's. The steps took on an ominous cast in his mind. Unconsciously Gregory found himself holding his breath when they paused outside his own door. Appalled anew at the reactions of his newly formed body, he was astounded the person on the other side of the door couldn't hear his erratic heartbeat pounding so loudly in his own eardrums.

Suddenly a voice called from downstairs in query, the speaker too muffled to identify. A pause, heavy with suspense, then the feet which had stopped, turned and retreated back down the hallway. It was only after hearing the echo of footfalls made uneven by the descent down wooden stairs that Gregory finally let out a ragged breath. Still he did not completely relax until he heard the resounding thud of the oaken main door shut moments later.

Seconds later a resounding knock at his door twisted every muscle back into tension, sent his pulse racing again, and hitched his next breath as it was being drawn. A feeling of illness settled itself on his stomach as he turned to face the door. Cautiously he opened it only to find the tension eased out for the second time in as many moments as he took in the stalwart form of Charles standing patiently with a package in his hands.

"This was delivered while you were visiting with the Madame. I figured you might prefer I given by hand later, rather than left it in your room where you might overlook it."

"Oh…um…thanks," Gregory managed in a choked and pained voice.

"Master Phillip should return within the hour. Dinner will be served at seven. Is there anything you will need before then?"

"N-nothing that I can think of Charles. Thanks again. Um…see you at dinner."

An eyebrow arched up on Charles's expressionless face, possibly at the weak smile, awkward responses, or the unsteadiness in Gregory's voice. Still no questions were posed as the package exchanged hands and the man left to prepare dinner. It was only after Charles was gone that Gregory realized that while he'd heard the muffled footsteps of the stranger outside his door, he'd heard nothing prior to the serving-man's knock. The observation was quickly dismissed; such service was just part of the mystery that was Charles and had he not just been bemoaning the insufficiency of his human senses. Considering how deafening his own heart had seemed to be what were a few missed footsteps? Truthfully he was just grateful that Charles seemed not the least bit curious as to where he had been all these years or how he was receiving a package the exact same day he himself took up residence again. At least there was one person in this house who had no care or interest in digging through the strangeness that surrounded him.

_Then again he probably expects that kind of service out of the post. _Perhaps it was just the release of tension but he found himself laughing weakly, almost with an edge of hysteria, at the idea of Post Master General Charles. _He would appear out of the blue with letters in hand the instant people opened their doors to go_ _check their mailbox. Probably manage to clean off their porches, straighten their clothes, and send them back inside all before their jaws finished dropping. _

Quickly shutting the door with one foot he walked to the bed and lay the box down. The package was perhaps the only thing today that was not a surprise to Gregory. Jesus had promised to deliver suitable clothing for a longer stay, as well as any odds or ends he might need. He debated opening it and went as far as to lay one hand on the box. Then his eyes met his sweat-damped trembling fingers, and with disgust he released the box and rubbed the betraying hand against his aching temples. _Enough of this! This is no way for a human or an angel to act! I need to relax myself or I'll be a mess at dinner._

His mind made up Gregory descended the stairs and exited the back of the house, choosing the very brisk air he had sought to escape earlier over the stifling atmosphere indoors. He carefully closed the door behind him and stopped at the railing of the raised stone patio to take in the view. Ms. Gavone's garden was spread out for the eye to take in though most of the greenery was hidden beneath layers of snow or covered by insulating blankets. It was not nearly as lovely as it was when he had seen it in the summer, where it had teemed with vibrant hues and bird song. Now only the cardinals provided either song or color, crimson chirping flashes against a still white field. Even the apple trees were brown and skeletal. Conspicuous bare patches stood out where entire rosebushes had been uprooted and moved to the greenhouse. The statues were not nearly as lovely, their shapes made lumpy and deformed by the piled snow and the jagged icicles. The few patches of color that were not cardinals were still red, providing only minor relief in the monotony. These splashes of color were signs of the few smaller sections that had been laid out with winter plants, holly and poinsettias.

Gregory was undaunted by the less than perfect view. He had come outside to utilize the only part of the garden that retained a constant air of vitality all season round. With a careful step he navigated a stone walkway, choosing the one most lightly covered in snowfall. He made his way towards the center piece of the garden, the wall of dwarf evergreens that surrounded Madame Gavone's beloved fountain. As soon as he slipped through the slim archway that was the only break in the fence of ten foot green sentinels, he felt a wave of security that did wonders to ease his both of his troubled halves.

The strong scent of pine was just short of overwhelming, providing a clean and comforting smell. Within the enclosure the temperature was more bearable, the tightly interwoven pines blocking the wind completely. The effect was as if he had entered another world, not quite connected to the dead, distorted one he'd just left behind. In the winter, with the fountain turned off and the trees cutting off outside noise, the place had a tranquil hush, furthering the impression of being in an isolated wonderland, timeless and still. Only his slow breaths and the soft squish of his shoes on the snow sounded within the enclosure.

Feeling completely safe and unobserved he let his hand drift downward to his side, his fingers closing over the empty air at his belt. Elios materialized in his grasp in response to his call and he drew the blade into open air. Setting his left foot back and his right forward, he turned his torso to the side. A quick twist of his upper body aligned his shoulders above the feet in a ready dueling pose. Then he slipped into a rehearsed series of cautious half steps, advances and retreats. During this warm-up he kept the blade still, an unmoving extension of arm and shoulder. After a few cycles of this and he began adding lunges, at rhythmic intervals. Finally he slipped fully into the workout letting the blade twist left and right, responding to the strikes of invisible foes.

Slowly he sought within himself for the peace he'd found earlier in the day trying to steal the serenity from the very air around him. In vain he reached within trying as he had hundreds of times before to bind the angelic and human halves, seeking a bridge from his straining human soul to the rigid, harsh and aching whiteness of serenity and surety within. It was tantalizingly just out of reach, hovering on the other side of the gulf of emotions that swam in any human mind. As close as the two halves seemed, that gulf between was bottomless, a well of feeling and instinct. It was a barrier that would never quite let him grasp that inner peace and surety that his pure-blood kin could call up as their birthright. Still he continued the exercise letting his body run through dueling patterns thoughtlessly. Even if inner peace was out of reach, the workout was at letting his muscles stretch and unwind after a day of unpleasant strain and tension.

_At least I don't feel like I'm about to die from a heart attack now. Thank god she has a place like this to retreat too; it's so peaceful and reassuring, almost like home. Not the same tight, binding sanctuary of Heaven, but a softer security, like being wrapped in a green blanket. I like this feeling. If I could capture this calm, I think I could handle even whatever Wendy Testaburger threw at me._

"You handle her well, mon ami."

The spell of peace shattered into fragments and the meditative dance of fencing fell apart mid-step, as words spoken aloud echoed the train of his thoughts. Words that had not originated from Gregory's mouth, but from behind him. His front leg kicked off the ground, providing the momentum to execute a pivot on his back leg turning him to face the direction the voice had originated from. On the snow the affect was not as smooth as he would have liked, his spin occurring more in a lurch than an even glide. Still Elios was steady, raised high at a defensive angle. The intruder observed all of this casually, his eyes briefly looking at the blade before returning to study Gregory. Gregory calmed himself, when he came to the conclusion that the stranger had not been reading his mind but referring to the blade work. While trying to regain his composure, he made a quick examination of his own.

The speaker had barely reacted to the now threatening blade, beyond raising his hands, palms open to show he was unarmed. His body remained in a relaxed stance, leaning against the evergreens behind him. The position gave no hint as to how long he'd been watching Gregory. It also did nothing to help put Gregory at ease; there were too many not-quite-reassuring details about the stranger that combined to make him mistrustful of the peaceful gesture. The boy was lean and clearly fit, muscle pressed tightly underneath the clothing he wore. Even leaning backwards the boy's body was tense. In spite of the impression of surrender he was giving, there was a hint of readiness about the speaker, an air of contained lethality that belied his non-confrontational pose. Silently Gregory corrected his initial assessment of the boy's stance. _Not relaxed, restrained. _

"Who are you?" Gregory forced his voice to remain calm in the face of the potentially dangerous observer.

The boy did not immediately respond, staring directly at Gregory, now completely ignoring the exposed blade between them. Rather than ask again Gregory decided to wait out a response, using the time to perform a more thorough examination of the boy. The intruder was dressed in a subdued manner, wearing only muted colors, dark brown pants, a midnight black turtleneck, and matching gloves. Actually two pairs of gloves, a thinner pair that covered the entire hand, and a thicker pair lying over top with cut off finger tips to allow greater dexterity. The entire ensemble would have been more suitable on a soldier intent on sneaking past an enemy line than a young man casually standing in a snowy courtyard. Several other clues seemed to hint more towards a militaristic nature beyond the clothing, and Gregory took inventory of his opponent's rather severe taste in every day gear.

The thing that caught Gregory's instant attention was the knife, sheathed and looped through a leather belt. The weapon made him more cautious in his search and he caught the hint of something, possibly a second blade, slightly protruding from one of the boy's boots. A coil of rope hung over one shoulder, for what purpose Gregory could not imagine, but he noted it nonetheless, certain from the impressions he was getting that nothing this boy carried would be 'harmless'. A single brown strap of leather cut a diagonal across the lean torso from shoulder to waist, clearly supporting some kind of larger weapon strapped to his back. The wooden shaft the weapon protruded visibly from behind his waist. The inspection turning up no other weapons, Gregory shifted his gaze upward to finally match stares with the boy.

His face was sharp, giving a triangular almost wolfish cast to his features. His cheeks and chin were as lean as his frame. His lips were stretched in an uneven smile, showing just the hint of sharp canines where one corner arched higher than the other side in amusement at the still threatening posture Gregory stood in. The eyebrows were pencil thin lines of brown hovering over sunken almond shaped eyes. A pair of darkened jade irises, nearly as black as the pupils they surrounded, boldly returned his studying look. It was the eyes that again suggested at a volatile underlying nature, for all their shadowed coloring they seemed to burn brightly with violent emotion. Only the boy's hair was in opposition to the careful precision and threat of everything else about him. The thick muddy brown locks were furiously unkempt, an impossible tangle of jutting spikes and hanging bangs. The mussed hair gave the stranger a boyish look, in spite of all of the seriousness. The incongruity made Gregory's lips twitch in the ghost of a smile.

"Somezing amusing to you?" The boy spoke sarcastically, ignoring the question he'd been asked for one of his own. Gregory pushed aside his appreciation of the boy's hair and considered his situation. He clearly had the dominant position for the moment and answering the boy's question first would just shift the balance of power. Instead he chose to remain silent, waiting for a response to his question first. Belatedly he realized his attempt to appear imposing was diminished by holding such a defensive position against a currently unarmed opponent. Gregory abandoned his crouch to stand straight, trying to appear more at ease while still keeping Elios between them.

The other boy was clearly not impressed, responding to the attempt at a power play with a simple shrug of his shoulders. Then his hands moved with remarkable speed into his pockets. Instantly Elios flashed in the dimming light as Gregory moved the blade to a more aggressive position in response to the sudden motion. The boy didn't even flinch at the threat though one eyebrow arched mockingly. If anything the boy only loosened up more. Even the smile traded some of its stiff sarcastic bend for a straighter, more genuine expression of amusement. With deliberate slowness his hands left his pockets retrieving a single cigarette and a lighter. He placed the cigarette between his lips and with a single practiced motion lit it. Then he made a show of moving with exaggerated care as he returned the lighter to his pocket before taking a long deep drag from the cigarette. He closed his eyes a moment clearly savoring the nicotine rush before exhaling.

Gregory wrinkled his nose in distaste as the acrid tang of smoke diluted the pine scent of the enclosed alcove. The boy came to some sort of decision during his exhalation. When he opened his eyes again they were empty, his emotions carefully masked. Likewise all amusement drained from his face, only the mockery remained now with a sharper edge to it. He stood straight forcing Gregory to angle his gaze upward a few inches to continue holding the taller boy's gaze.

Then the stranger advanced towards Gregory closing the distance quickly, heedless of the bared blade. With resignation Gregory let the blade drop knowing that for the moment at least Elios's presence was merely a bluff. In spite of the possible threat the boy presented Gregory was unwilling to risk drawing blood with the enchanted weapon. Elios did not strike to hurt or warn. Elios struck to kill. Until he knew just what kind of threat the boy presented he could not assume he was facing anything other than a normal boy. He would not murder an innocent unless Duty itself demanded it.

As he lowered the blade to his side he turned his attention to the boy. Now that they were closer he could make out a glint coming from behind the advancing boy's shoulders, something he had missed in the distraction of his opponent's face earlier. Staring intently he could make out the top edge of the weapon strapped to the boy's back. He considered its shape with a perplexed frown._ That's too round to be any normal blade. What kind of weapon is he carrying? Surely not an axe, the Madame would let someone run around in her garden with one of those. Though she does let me walk around with a sword._ The train of thought halted as the boy stopped with only a foot of space remaining between them.

"Don't recognize me at all, Gregory? 'ow touching. You are lucky I'm not one of zose bleeding 'eart pussies, or I might cry. Great big fucking tears," the boy paused allowing a hollow grin to cross his features, eerily giving more an impression of regret than joy, "I guess I am just easily forgotten, non?"

The boy took another drag on the cigarette this time blowing the smoke directly into Gregory's face. As he coughed and choked in the toxic air, Gregory puzzled furiously over what the boy had said. The response was confusing, because even at a glance, the one thing Gregory could say for sure was that if he had ever met this boy he would never have forgotten him. The predatory manner, the ominous spark of danger, everything about the boy was captivating, if unsettling.

His mind ran through the list of people he'd met, trying to match the young man to a child's face, a task made difficult by the boy's startlingly dangerous and adult manner. Then, in a flash of insight, all the pieces of the puzzle clicked. The tangled hair, the accent, the strange rounded weapon, not an axe…a shovel, it all neatly dropped into place. The boy had changed a great deal over the years, growing taller and leaner. What little innocence he'd once possessed had clearly disappeared during that time as well. There was very little left of the angry child he once knew and so much more of the deadly soldiers the youth had expressed admiration of whenever they'd talked. Still this was Christophe, ze Mole, who he'd first met in this same garden nearly a decade before. The strain melted out of Gregory's body and he slipped Elios casually back into his belt before stepping back. He thrust his hand into the space he created between them, offering the standard gesture of greeting. A genuine smile drifted across his face as he addressed his friend of so many years past.

"Christophe! I did not recognize you. You've changed so much! This is a happy coincidence. I wasn't expecting to run into you this soon. How have you been?"

Christophe looked down at the hand then back up at the boy. He made no move to respond to the gesture, instead taking another drag on the cigarette. This time he did not exhale directly into Gregory's face, but off to the side. Only then did he deign to reply.

"I have been, Gregory. Not good, not bad. Life is shit, God is a prick, but I keep busy, and ze pay is better. I must say, I did not expect to run into you eizer," Christophe paused, before a hint of accusation snuck into his tone and his eyes sparkled with a touch of malice, "Actually I did not expect to run into you ever again. In spite of zat, I still recognized you."

Beyond the accusation in Christophe's tone, Gregory heard something else that sounded almost like hurt. Yet the idea of Christophe being wounded by anything as inconsequential as someone's feelings or opinion was laughable. Gregory became uncomfortably aware that he had abandoned his defensive stance perhaps a bit prematurely. He returned his hand to his side, unshaken, before awkwardly lifting it to run through and straighten his messy curls, still damp with sweat from his workout. While he pushed them back into something resembling the swept back part he preferred he racked his brain for some polite response. Meanwhile Christophe's eyes followed every motion with the intensity of a hunter stalking prey. Seeing the blonde was at a loss for words, Christophe waited long enough to take another drag before continuing.

"You are here to visit again zen, non? Must be newly arrived. I come in to often for 'er to have been 'iding you long. Lucky me, I decided to stop in today to inspect ze driveway. Now I see why ze Madame was so insistent I check on ze state of ze garden walkways as well. She must zink it a wonderful joke springing zis on us both unprepared, non?"

Christophe's voice was dry, showing no hint that he found any amusement at all in the Madame's little surprise. Still Gregory felt obliged to offer a weak chuckle, sounding even more strained in the face of Christophe's impassivity.

"She does enjoy playing little games sometimes. But you must know that better than I. You've had so much time with her over the years."

"Zis is true," Christophe noted, before abruptly changing topics, catching Gregory off guard with a suspiciously light tone, "She must be so 'appy to see you again. You left so quickly after all zat trouble we 'ad. Not even time for a proper goodbye for your friends. She was so sad zat you left wizout a word to any of us. She usually 'as more time to get to know people. Pity you were only 'ere during such a bad string of luck for everyone and she was too busy. Funny, non, zat it all started so shortly after you arrived and ended almost as soon as you left?"

"Well, after all that mess cleared up, my family wanted me to come back home…"

Unsure he liked where the conversation was now heading, Gregory's tone had become evasive as he prepared one of his usual 'safe answers.' Christophe heard the change and irritation swept across his face. He cut off any further response from Gregory, brushing the reply away mid-sentence with one gloved hand as if waving away a bothersome insect.

"I don't want to 'ear about Yardale, or your 'family.' Right now were talking about my family, my 'ome. Zis place has been good to me; zat woman has been good to me. Better zan my own muzer, for sure. You may be able to pop in and out wiz no worries, but some of us need what zis place offers. So, believe me when I say, if any new trouble 'as followed you 'ere again, if anyzing bad 'appens to anyone at zis 'ouse …whoever brought it will not get away zis time before zey regret it."

Christophe inched forward during his speech breaching that small neutral space Gregory had created between them. Unconsciously Gregory retreated until he felt the pinpricks of evergreen branches digging into his back. Christophe continued his deliberate approach, stopping only when his threat ended, less than half the distance now separating them. Only a few inches of empty air parted angry green jades from conflicted hazelnut spheres. Righteous indignation at the idea he'd hurt the woman, or anyone else, warred with nervous discomfort for control of Gregory's reactions. In the confusion he spoke without thinking.

"I, I don't know what your talking about Christophe. I'm just here for a visit."

Pain shot up Gregory's spine, not unendurable or overpowering but sharp and quick, like the jab of a line of needles, one at each vertebra. Gregory released a gasp of surprise and felt his eyes water. The pain was familiar and he knew the boy had not moved or attacked him; the reaction was inflicted from within, triggered by his utterance of an untruth. Apparently Christophe was not honest or 'good' enough to warrant an attempt at interference from his betraying hands, but a lie had to be punished no matter who it was spoken to.

_Thank god that was only a partial lie, or it could have been much worse._ Gregory thought. _At least I really don't know exactly what he's talking about. I've never brought any trouble, the trouble brought me. But why did I have to add the last part?! _

Gregory struggled to control the tearing in his eyes, knowing it was foolish to show signs of weakness before a stalking predator. Caught off guard for the first time in their encounter since happening upon the blonde unexpectedly, Christophe stepped backwards thinking he'd forced Gregory too far into the trees and gotten the boy jabbed. In spite of the courteous offer of space for Gregory to move free of the tree, he allowed no visible trace of sympathy to show on his rigid demeanor.

"I'm sure you are," sarcasm laced Christophe's response, before his tone became forcibly light. "Who said I was talking about you anyway? I was just, 'ow you say, being rhetorical? Expressing a zought out loud."

"I'd say more like theatrical," Gregory took the opportunity of Christophe's step back to move away from the pines and stand a little straighter. He seized the chance to try and unbalance the situation. Harnessing his indignant outrage, he threw caution to the wind and actually took an aggressive step in Christophe's direction, letting anger give him the courage to approach. "Really, what's the big idea, trying to scare me like that? As if I've ever done anything to hurt anyone here. Are you just mad that I left without saying anything? What was there to say? They told me you were dead. I didn't even know otherwise until I was already gone. I would have tried to say goodbye if I'd known. And how do you get off saying I'm responsible for that mess? Remember La Resistance? I tried to help stop that war!"

Christophe's eyes widened further and in spite of the aura of menace that lay thick between the pines his lips curled into a feral smile. Unbidden, Gregory came to a hasty realization, he wasn't gaining the upper hand, he was giving Christophe what the boy desired. _I think he actually wants a fight; he looks excited at the idea of a physical confrontation with me. He actually likes it that I'm angry. And I think I do too. _Gregory took stock of the way his human side was responding to the charged atmosphere. His pulse had quickened, his breath was coming out in ragged pants, and his hands were clenching into fists at his side. He was sickened at how eagerly his own body was reacting to the potential violence. Before him Christophe stood deathly still, hands deliberately open at his side. He was clearly waiting for Gregory to throw the first punch. Desperately Gregory fought to reach across that churning void of emotions for the frozen-white angelic core of stillness. Inch by inch he pulled back on the reins of his anger. He calmed his breathing and forced his hands to also flatten open. Slowly the atmosphere moved back from the threshold and Christophe released a disappointed sigh. Strands of smoke slipped free from between his slightly parted lips. Then his expression shifted to a more curious one still waiting for the blonde to make the first move.

Gregory caught the subtle cue in body language that let him know he'd have to break the silence, but had no idea what on earth to say next. He tried to search Christophe's face for clues as to what direction to take the conversation, but found it difficult to make out the boy's face. All unnoticed during his workout the sun had begun a slow march downward to the horizon. Their brief exchange had distracted him further from its descent and now it had fallen below the tops of the trees. The shadow of the pines had deepened casting a curtain over Christophe's already sunken, black-green eyes. Gregory leaned in trying to get a better view, his eyes locking on the cherry red tip of the cigarette, whose faint light was strong enough to reveal at least Christophe's lips. As Gregory drew near he focused on those lips, the only easily visible part of Christophe's face that might give some hint as to what the boy was thinking. His attention caught in the glow and he did not catch the surge of warring emotions that flashed across Christophe's face as he drew closer.

Suddenly, Christophe's lips parted in a sharp inhalation of air and the cigarette slipped free. Gregory followed its descent till it landed in the snow. The cigarette protested its death with a faint hiss. In the silent minute that followed, Gregory watched the wispy tendrils of smoke until they too began to fade, lost in the failing light. In front of him the dark clothes Christophe wore now blended stealthily into the dark as Gregory had suspected they might. For the moment he could pretend to be alone in that desperately wished for isolation. With no visible clues from Christophe as to what to say he realized he'd have figure out a response from his own body's cues.

He needed to reach for the guidance that could only be found in a calmer state of mind. Still sick at his violent reactions he seized the quietude, forcing his mind away from the other boy's presence and returning to the internal battle that had dragged him outside in the first place. Again he was back to trying to control his fear, as well as new emotions that had flared up since the encounter. He struggled to silence the humanity so he could listen for answers that his angelic half might offer.

A pressure touched his face, startling Gregory. Unseen, something lifted his chin upward to meet Christophe's gaze. With chagrin he conquered his nervous jump, realizing it was just Christophe's hand. Thanks to its layered black gloves, the hand was rendered as invisible as the rest of the boy's clothing had managed to shroud his body.

No one spoke yet; internal conflicts within both still strong enough to quell any actual words. Gregory now wrestled with confusion, having no idea what on earth Christophe could be looking at. To his eyes Christophe's expressions were completely hidden in a cloak of impenetrable darkness. He did not realize that the weak light in the sky that effectively blinded him to Christophe's dark, downturned face, made his own face, with its paler complexion turned up to the light, still faintly visible to the taller boy. In discomforted nervousness Gregory's lower lip trembled and he bit it to hide the quiver.

The hand gripping his face tightened in reaction. The added pressure hurt and his eyes rounded in shock. Yet the finger tips under the thinner glove were warm compared to the cold crisp air around them. In spite of the pain he leaned into that warmth, his face moving into the hand. Christophe's grip loosened in response to the approach and a choked off, almost animal-like sound of surprise came from the shadowed taller boy. The noise sent a wave of warmth through Gregory, his body reacting to a surge of yet unidentified signals and sensations. Gregory had experienced a gamut of emotions while human, anger, pity, sorrow, shame, horror, shock, fear, comfort, peace, joy, the list was long. He knew he'd not yet felt them all though and the ones rising to the surface now were definitely new. Curiosity peaked and he forgot his own intentions to reach for the stillness and tranquility. He turned his focus instead to holding his hands still at his side, and his breath in his lungs as he listened for once to what the human half was trying to say. Whatever it was, it was trying to shatter his composure with a desperate urgency. His eyes locked on the shadows trying to guess where Christophe's eyes were, wondering if perhaps the boy might provide an answer.

"Gregory…" there was no anger when Christophe finally spoke, his voice breaking free from an unseen mouth. He continued softly, so soft Gregory had to inch forward to hear it, close enough to feel the warm, smoke scented breath drifting over him. "What …"

A polite cough sounded. The noise was jarring and disrupted the charged atmosphere in the formerly quiet space. At once both boys' heads turned to the arching entrance of the evergreen enclosure, where an indistinct figure could be made out.

"Gregory? Are you there? Charles said you were out here. Bloody hell I hope you're in here. It's far too dark to be out searching right now." Phillip's voice rang out tremulously, a light tremble in it brought on by a combination of nervousness at the unwelcoming dark and the rising chill in the air. A light snow had begun to fall, a snow that like the young British intruder had come upon Gregory unnoticed, distracted as he was by the exchange with Christophe.

Phillip took a cautious step into the area, squinting against the fearful darkness. Accidentally, or perhaps not, Gregory's hand brushed against Elios. The motion was easily visible as the blade moved into one of the slowly rising moon's pale beams. Phillips eyes caught the glint and he squinted in that direction barely able to make out an orange sweater and pale face.

"There you are! So you were practicing with your sword again. Some things never change 'eh? Well I hate to stop you but you really should come inside now. I can't imagine why you'd want to keep practicing now anyway. It's far too dark out for it to be safe to be playing with that thing. Dinners ready and Madame's terribly upset. I'm afraid I had to deliver some bad news too her so we really shouldn't keep her waiting."

Gregory debated between sending Phillip in ahead of him and accepting the escape the other blonde offered. The unfinished question could be very dangerous especially with how fearfully close Christophe had come to the truth about a deeper involvement between Gregory and their past troubles. Worse, he wasn't entirely sure a lie to this boy would be any more convincing than one to Wendy. It wasn't like he had a lot of training in that particular field and both seemed far too aware of his background's gaping holes. Yet his curiosity was arguing against the rational choice, there was still an answer of his own to be obtained. Those clues of body language and tone he was supposed to be using to assess the people around him were setting off alarms. If he pushed a little further he might figure out just what signal his own body seemed so keen on responding too. In the heat of the moment he was irrationally tempted to forego caution. _It might be worth the risk of one honest answer, to find out just what is going on._

Christophe made the decision for him. Gregory felt cold air caress his chin where a warm hand had been a second before. Stealthily, the French boy stepped back farther into the shadow of the trees. Unsure why Christophe was trying to sneak away Gregory turned to where the boy had just been, trying to locate the shadowy boy by the sound of army boots softly crunching in the snow. Phillip observed Gregory's sudden interest in the darkness and turned with fright to examine the rest of the fountain area.

"Gregory? Is someone else out here?"

The sound of steps stopped. Phillip inched cautiously towards Gregory his eyes round as he examined the darkness for hidden monsters. Seeing Phillip's obvious concern and recognizing on some level that the moment, whatever it was, had passed Gregory moved towards the English boy. He threw a comforting arm around Phillip's shoulder. For reasons unknown to his conscious mind, he decided to honor Christophe's clear desire to remain unnoticed. He used his arm about Phillip to steer the boy back towards the house while throwing on a falsely cheery tone.

"You're right; it's far too dark out here and with this snow it's only going to get worse. Let's go back inside where it's warm. In the meantime, you can tell me what on earth you could have possibly done that would cause Ms. Gavone to lose her temper."

Phillip eagerly took to the suggestion, preferring the idea of heading back inside where warmth and food waited to any more time spent tarrying in the dark. On the way he chattered rapidly to keep the shadows at bay.

"Well actually, she's not mad at anything I did. She's just upset that I didn't bring Leopold home with me."

"Leopold?"

"Oh, sorry. You probably remember him as Butters. Everyone else calls him that, just like they all call me Pip. But whenever we're at the Fosterage, you should call him Leopold. Madame Gavone thinks Butters is such a terribly improper name. Anyway, he was supposed to come over for dinner and games. He does that a lot; I guess it's more fun for him here than it is at his home. Plus we're the best of friends. Of course, we don't really have many other friends, so I suppose we'd have to be the best of friends. Wouldn't we? As I was saying he was supposed to have dinner with us but he couldn't make it on account of the fact that he was grounded. Again. It happens a lot with him. I think it's awfully strange to be grounded when you're sixteen but his parents do it to him all the time. You wouldn't believe some of the things he's been grounded for. Putting the groceries away wrong, taking bad pictures, and I don't mean rude pictures, but just ones where they thought he looked ugly, and other silly things. The Madame gets so angry when they do it. 'Phillip', she says to me, 'it's not right that they be allowed to treat the boy like that.' And of course I heartily agree. But they're his parents so what can we do?"

Between trying to understand the torrent of information and his difficulty navigating the path, Gregory fell behind the other boy. Phillip moved far more quickly, traveling the walkways by memory rather than sight. Ruefully Gregory could just make out the shapes of several short lampposts located along the path. Unfortunately for Gregory during the winter they were apparently kept off. Fortunately as they reached the patio, the light from the house made things much easier. Of course by then Phillip was already at the door to the house and the story was cut off as the chatty boy slipped eagerly inside without a backward glance.

About to enter himself Gregory froze at the door when his ears caught the hint of a sound in the silence, something distant and musical, a brassy note on some unseen instrument that cut through his reverie with ominous import. Startled he turned but saw no sign of any other person let alone a musician sounding a muted horn. His hand still on the door, Gregory hovered uncertainly, his eyes carefully scanning the garden. The darkness and falling snow conspired to make the attempt futile; he could not make out a single thing beyond the patio railing. Still he knew roughly when his searching gaze passed over the dwarf evergreens and a small surge of warmth fought back against the biting cold touching his cheeks. Idly he wondered if Christophe had already slipped away under the screen of sound Phillip had created with the telling of his story. His free hand ghosted over his chin where the faint marks of the French boy's fingers had already faded. A confused sigh escaped his lips before he reluctantly reached for the stillness and calm inside, subduing his inner turmoil in preparation for the dinner conversation he'd have to make and the questions he'd undoubtedly have to dodge.

**

* * *

**

When the door closed a final time, the sound carried over the still garden. It signaled to the hidden watcher, letting him now it was finally safe to move. From the branches of one of the apple trees, surprisingly far from the fountain area, a shadow dropped to the ground landing almost noiselessly in the snow. A silver lighter seemed to materialize, sparking a fast flame that appeared to hover unsupported, taking on an almost ghostly import. A cigarette seemed to float up, carried by black cloaked fingers, to settle between a pair of unseen lips before flaring to life as the lighter touched its tip.

Over a slow, much needed drag on the cigarette, the stealthy smoker reflected upon the unexpected meeting, wondering why the boy had turned back at the last moment before entering the house. The smoker was certain he'd made no sound. Yet he had neither heard nor observed anything else that would have startled Gregory, causing him to examine the garden so pensively before entering. _Nozing to cause 'im any worry at all except zat you practically molested 'im wizout warning. Stop zinking wiz your dick just because ze boy tried to stand up to you. If it wasn't an act 'e was probably just terrified about what you were about to say or do to 'im before Pip interrupted. Eizer way nozing good would have come of what you were about to do._ A confused flush of chagrin flashed over the hidden face and the watcher considered those final moments and his unfinished question.

_What was I going to say to 'im anyway? Zere are too many questions zat I need to ask. What is 'e doing back 'ere? What disaster is going to follow 'im zis time? What was 'e about to do? What was I about to do? What does all of zis mean? _His mind settled unhappily on the final question and the figure moved to leave the garden, turning his back on the bright Fosterage lights. Like Phillip he had no need for the light to navigate his way through a garden that was as much his as the Madame's. A garden that was normally his place of retreat and not a source of consternation.

A twinge of fear settled over the normally stoic and unflinching mercenary, a sensation that had nothing to do with the sinister woods he had to walk through or the unhappy home that waited him at the other side. The glow of the cigarette butt flared brightly before moving clear of his mouth in a rapid streak of light. His breath slipped free, the heat melting the few unlucky snowflakes located in front of his face. The unhappy conclusion to his final question escaped from his mind then, carried upward on a cloud of smoke and vapor before both were swallowed in the darkness and silence surrounding him.

"Trouble…"


	10. Interlude 8 to 9: A Brassy Refrain

**A/N:** And...into each story a little "plot progression" must fall. Rather than break up the tendency of Even/Odd chapters to center around particular characters, I've gone ahead and labeled this an "Interlude." I'll try to steer clear of them when I can, but after that first day wrapped up, I had too many loose plots to tie up that didn't really fit cleanly into either Gregory or Damien's centered sections. I know this doesn't have the same appeal as a chapter tied closely to one of those characters, so don't expect Interludes often, and I certainly wont make you wait as long after one for a regular chapter.

I try to address in this particular Interlude the problematic discontinuity between how an angel should behave and how they behaved in the Golden PSP episode. I've tried to keep a bit of South Park in there simply because too much time in Heaven or Hell just detracts from our favorite little Colorado town. Do enjoy!

Sky

* * *

"You can't teach an old dogma new tricks." Dorothy Parker

WPW Interlude (Post Chapt. 8): A Brassy Refrain 

In the Shimmering City Michael was displeased. As close as to displeased as one could come in the city of Eternal Peace at least. And the source of his displeasure was his fellow Arch-Angels who engaged in a most unseemly heated debate, their voices carrying through the Hall of Discourse.

"I really think we should consider moving some force beyond the Pearly Gates, nothing serious, just something more solid than our scattered sentries," Raphael suggested to the other angels.

"I agree that it's an option to consider, but perhaps we would be better served by inventorying the vaults. We should begin cleaning and preparing the armaments that we may adorn the forces appropriately when we finally send them out," countered Uriel mildly.

Gabriel remained ever silent, his very presence in the room being the most he would bend in his stubborn refusal to do anything until God sent a sign. As for Michael, he was calmly giving off the appearance of weighing the options while he truly pondered how they'd come to such a contentious pass. This was as hot and heavy an argument as the city had seen since the tranquility was restored after the invasion by Hell. Once the city was at peace, it was supposed to stay at peace, the seat of God was not meant to be a place of strife or disagreement.

He was just about to stand and offer his solution, to try and do both things, which would certainly be met with more deliberation and discontent, when a rushing angel burst into the room. The angel all but burst through the door, crashing into the chamber without any concern for proper way things were done.

The angel flushed with embarrassment when Michael leveled his most disappointed gaze at the intruder. Quickly amending his oversight, the angel bowed at the waist, "Pardon, oh most high Arch-Angels, but a message I bear from the all-seeing Dominion, Adrian of Limbo."

Michael took pity on the angel, who must surely have a reason for such callous behavior. He responded with all the proper courtesies as if the angel had not just spoken with inconceivable rudeness.

"Speak, Alinelle, of Adrian's Host, what has the Dominion of Limbo seen, that warrants such unseemly haste."

Grateful for the forgiveness of his lapse in manners, Alinelle replied, "Greater demons, Michael, Sword of the most High. Three of the foul beasts have breached the Obsidian Gate and lay waste to the grassy seas of Limbo."

"Truly, demons once again wandering the plains," Uriel spoke, though there was no note of question in his voice, for no angel in Heaven would lie to another. His words were merely a restatement, as he tried to cope with the unpleasant concept and weigh its import. "It is as we have feared then, Satan moves again in God's silence. Or perhaps the Fallen are losing what little control they have managed to instill in that den of vipers."

"Or perhaps it is the Fallen themselves orchestrating this move deliberately, marshalling for their own march," Raphael suggested in argument.

Michael's eyebrows rose, shocked at such a display of disagreement in front of an inferior angel. Alinelle stepped backward clearly uncomfortable in the presence of such hostility among the powerful. Michael caught the movement, and arrested Alinelle's retreat with a single glance.

"Peace Brothers," Michael recalled the room to its senses, "It is but three of the fiends. If something more momentous were astir, I'm sure another messenger would be here hot on the heels of Alinelle of Adrian's Host."

As if summoned by his words a second angel ran into the room, almost tripping over Alinelle his eyes wide, gasping for breath fiercely.

"Fallen," the breathless angel choked out foregoing bow and titles, the news clearly so dire that he'd abandoned all decorum. "The Fallen have emerged onto the plains Most High. Seven have breached the gate, with none other than Azazel himself at the lead. Adrian, Dominion of Limbo, begs thy presences in his chamber at once."

The name Azazel dropped as a heavy stone in the silence the word Fallen had cast over the chamber. Raphael's eyes tracked across the room to Michael who absently rubbed the smooth skin over his right arm. No scar marked it, no scar could permanently mar the immortal flesh, but the memory of one could linger still where time had erased all physical signs.

"We shall come then, Shule of Adrian's Choir. In the meantime, you will remain here until we have returned, to ponder the proper dictates of courtesy along with Alinelle of Adrian's Choir."

Shule bent in half, making a belated deep bow of obeisance and Alinelle inched away lest further shame stain him as well. Moving past the two messengers, the four Arch-Angels left the room. En route to Adrian's chamber, Gabriel parted ways, choosing instead to travel to the Chamber of Thrones, undoubtedly hopeful that such an unprecedented act as the emergence of the Fallen from banishment might finally catch the creator's attention and warrant a response from God. Michael barely noticed Gabriel's departure or the sea of bowing angels that parted for the three remaining Arch-angels as they strode to their destination.

Adrian's chamber was vast, as it had to be to represent the map of Limbo, which the Dominion watched over. The tiles of the floor were made of a uniformly colored green stone, a white tinged peridot, carefully carved and painted with stylistic wavy images of grass to represent the plains that were the bulk of Limbo. At one corner of the room, opalescent blocks, shaped from pearl, with golden wire strung lightly between, were set out in a detailed miniature of Heaven's Gates. It was at the other end of the chamber; however, that the angels in the room all hovered, clustered around a pile of obsidian shards that had been stacked to mirror the entrance to Hell. Placed on the ground were several figures carved in various stones, that had been gathered from the rooms were such were kept unused in the past few years. Two miniature demons, carved from agate had been placed on the ground, and a third was off the floor, resting in an angel's hands. Also on the ground were seven stylized pairs of wings all carved from onyx. They were identical save for the lead one, where a twinkle of light glinted off the sigil of Azazel's name, inlaid upon it in ruby. Those particular pieces had been pulled from one of the vaults that had been sealed since the Fall several millennia past.

Michael stared at the lead set of wings, his hand returning to tracing his unblemished bicep. The buzz of sound faded at the Arch Angels arrival and all angels in the chamber turned to watch them approach save for Adrian. The Dominion was oblivious to everything around him. A quirk of his kind, among highest caste of specialized angels, he was not even aware of the chamber around him. In truth he was blind to the room and all around him, as all Dominions were, for though they were gifted with a degree of vision that bordered upon omniscience with the domains they watched, a balance must be kept, for no one but god could truly be all seeing. His eyes, brilliantly glowing miniature stars, were shining beacons, blazing off towards some unknown sight in the distance. Occasionally he whispered words and the angel beside him would direct other angels to move the seven wings closer to one of the remaining demon figures.

Raphael spoke first, "Adrian, Dominion of Limbo, it has been said by those of your Host, that demons ransack the plains and that Fallen ride the winds of your realm once more."

Adrian did not answer immediately, whispering another message to the nearby assistant, who directed yet another angel to remove the second demon statue from the ground. Only then did the Dominion speak to the Arch Angels, though he did not turn his face or shift his gaze by even an inch to acknowledge them.

"The Host has indeed spoken of such things. No longer are they true; however, for only one demon remains to defile my domain. The Fallen have banished their wayward servants with great and terrible ferocity. And at their head, Azazel flies, with shining Mortis scything through the spawn as if through grain."

"Then they move to contain their own troubles Brothers," Uriel offered, his tone made faint by relief.

"They have left the realm they were cast unto Uriel," Raphael offered in gentle reprimand, "They have transgressed God's edict. No matter the cause, there can only be one response."

Before them, Adrian had already returned to whispering words, the conversation of less import to him than his eternal obligation to watch what transpired within his realm. Duty, the driving purpose which drove him and all of his brethren, mattered more than the world changing news about to break beside him. Following the instructions he next proffered, the seven wings were moved towards the final demon statue.

Uriel grimaced before responding with one final attempt to stall what he knew was coming.

"Shall we go to Brother Gabriel then and share what we have learned?"

Michael nodded dissent, turning a gaze to the distant Chamber of Thrones.

"God is still silent. Brother Gabriel will abstain." Following this statement Michael's hand ceased its tracing of his arm and steel crept into his voice when he spoke, "I say War. How say you Brothers."

"War," Raphael assented quickly and the silence deepened in the chamber as all eyes save Adrian's burning orbs turned to Uriel.

Uriel looked at the two stern faces of his fellow Arch-Angels and inside cursed Gabriel's absence. In the silence he watched as Adrian whispered again and the final statue was removed. The seven wings were turned to aim back towards the Obsidian Gate. He was tempted to divert their attention to the change, but he knew it would not move or alter the positions of the other Arch Angels. The will of Heaven had never been unclear on this point; no action could be overlooked or trumped by purpose. The Letter and Spirit of the Law, both were equally inviolate. Some of those who had first Fallen had forgotten that very fact, flying on the winds of good intentions. In the end he bowed his head before the relentless and unforgiving mandate of the angels, that which directed the stars in the sky and spun the Earth below.

"War," Uriel whispered softly, yet the word carried across the chamber and out into the city beyond, echoing as no other word had in the city's halls since the day God's voice had stilled. A rolling tension moved through the crowd and out into the chambers beyond, stripping away the ensorcelled aura of calm that kept the angels of the city ever polite and at peace. Human souls wandering the streets stood still in surprise, wondering at the visible transformation overcoming their winged keepers' normally passive faces.

"It is done then, War upon the Fallen," Michael intoned, "Tell the Cherubim to ready the marching Hymns. Prepare the Host for War." Half a dozen angels left the room, running to spread the word. Then the stiffness and stoicism dropped from Michael's face as the spell of tranquility and peace over the City at last completely lifted. The hand that touched his right bicep now clenched hard, as he felt the surge of old anger rise to fill the void left by peace. Somewhere an angel swore and no one moved in shock or outrage. War had been declared and like the demon invasion of years past, the Rules had changed.

"Someone go to the Hall of Discourse and retrieve the two angels standing there. Tell them to get their asses down to the Vaults to retrieve the trumpets," Raphael commanded.

"It will take time to plan a course of action," Uriel spoke sadly, grasping at one final straw, "We shouldn't move with haste."

Raphael took pity on his fellow Arch-Angel tossing an arm about Uriel's shoulder in a casual display of camaraderie that before the proclamation would have scandalized the room.

"We won't rush this, Uriel. The Fallen have been preparing far longer than we have. It might be weeks, possibly months before we are ready to move. Still we must alert the Host." Releasing Uriel, Raphael turned and slapped Michael on the back allowing an unpleasant grin to mar his perfect face, "And when we do, it looks like you may finally have an opportunity to avenge yourself against that ill-fated strike, Michael. Come let us seek out our arms. You'll want Fidelis, sharpened before you cross blades with that one again," he spat on the carefully carved tiles near Azazel's symbol.

Michael grinned in response, feeling the old excitement course through his veins once again and followed Raphael from the room as did most of the remaining angels.

Uriel remained to watch Adrian offer one last whisper and the assistant leaned down to remove the seven winged statues beside the pile of obsidian. Somewhere angels were dusting off brassy trumpets and with feverish anticipation wetting dry lips.

"God damn it," Uriel swore softly as he walked with heavy tread from the chamber.

**

* * *

**Back in Limbo, Azazel flew fast and swift, forcing a murderous pace on his exhausted companions. They'd deserved a rest, but he was urgently needed in Dis. He'd allow them their reprieve once they'd reached the city.

_I wonder if the boy guessed at all that's really going on,_ Azazel thought as he relaxed himself into the rhythm of flight, _or if he thinks this all ended with the banished demons._

In the end it would matter little if Damien suspected more, though Azazel doubted the boy could grasp the full consequences. The boy might be half angel, but he'd been raised among the Fallen and the Fallen and Heavenly Hosts had a few stark differences, though they might be too subtle for a mortal to grasp. He might not realize how inflexible the Rules might be up there, or how extreme the reaction to even the slightest break. The boy surely must have read the passages were God cast the Fallen down, forbidden to traverse Limbo or Heaven ever again, but probably would not grasp what the consequences of transgressing that Law might bring. No, the boy was probably unaware, especially as there was no true reason to suspect anything, for the claim of using the demons as a distraction was honest enough. All eyes were on Heaven and Hell now, with no one looking to the mortal realm between.

_How did you put it Penemue? The King falls just the same whether it's a Bishop or a Pawn that places him in check. _A thought all his own passed his mind after that, _Of course a Pawn falls swifter and easier still._

Feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the gaping ominous mouth of Hell, Azazel flew through the Obsidian Gate in a flurry, his squad switching to single formation behind as they crossed the narrow gap. At last back in hazy sulfur tainted skies, Azazel redoubled his efforts, heedless of the strain. He was all too aware that he was needed in Dis now rather than later. There were far too many tasks and duties to handle now that things had been set in motion and Penemue would undoubtedly need assistance. As for Damien, they'd prepared the boy as best they could and now they'd have to trust in the Morningstar's blood.

Beneath the distracted angel, endless hordes of demonic yellow eyes hungrily tracked his flight through Hell, watching as intently as starlit silver ones had while he crossed Limbo. Meanwhile from the Pearly Gates of Heaven, across the befogged span of endless grassy plains, into the echoing caves of the darkness below, and through the shimmering cosmos of the Veil to distant Earth, the Trumpets of War resounded.

**

* * *

**On earth Christ was sitting in his DJ booth, selecting appropriate songs for the upcoming morning of, "Rise from the Bed with Jesus and Pals," when he felt the commotion at the Obsidian Gate. Not terribly surprised that something was finally coming to pass, he set the music aside and opened finely tuned senses to the disturbances on Limbo.

Even he couldn't distinguish between the three 'distraction' Fallen and the summoned demons, but when the seven Fallen transgressed the Gate in full battle array, he knew them for what they were. Other than Satan, Jesus's interactions with the Fallen were few, but there was no mistaking that paradoxical combination of focused chaos. He could not be sure from this side of the Veil just who was out there or what they were doing, but he knew that none of that would ultimately matter when the news reached the Shining City. Thus he was unsurprised when the Trumpets of War rang from Heaven sometime later and he felt the peaceful city boil over as long suppressed emotions surged awake within it.

"Predictable as always," he sighed sadly, "though that qualification normally extends to the Fallen as well."

He pondered with dread for a moment that perhaps the Fallen had finally given into the chaos around them, before dismissing the unlikely idea. Those seven had wielded their power with perfectly recognizable angelic determination and he'd caught the ripping vacuum of missing demon presences occurring as regular as clockwork as they moved about banishing their foes. No this was not some random chance or uncontrolled action. This was part of something deliberate, bearing the mark of Penemue's hand Jesus was certain. There wasn't a particular reason to assign the scheme to that ancient scholar, save that there was no obvious reason to assign it to anyone, or even see a scheme at all. That kind of play, hiding a greater move in a swift display of distractingly obvious action and reaction, was a sign of a master of subtle designs. In Hell that could only mean Lucifer or his adviser.

Jesus wasn't sure why he discounted Satan so quickly, save that something had changed in the ancient enemy of Christendom over the past years. Unless Satan's strange behavior was a sign of yet another subtle game and he voluntarily was looking the fool to the world. Jesus deemed such an act beyond Satan in his endless pride. No something was going on with Satan, but it wasn't something deliberate. The idea of a Satan acting irrationally caused Christ even more discomfort than the idea of an unknown Fallen scheme.

_I'll have to talk to Gregory in the morning,_ Jesus sighed, _He should be warned about this at least. It is his brothers that will be preparing for war. I'll have to make sure he keeps a closer eye than ever for a reaction in South Park. _Jesus began considering what warning signs he should direct the boy to watch for. Celestial troubles always overflowed into South Park, but the manner was not always immediately apparent. He'd hoped Gregory might have time to adjust to being in a human body again before his mission began in earnest, but time stayed its hand at the whim of no man, no matter how divine his blood.

Decision made, Christ altered the musical selection, choosing "How Do You Talk To an Angel," as the first song for his upcoming morning show. Gregory would hear it when he tuned into the station in the morning, as they'd agreed he would do every day. This of course got Jesus back to the task of rearranging the songs appropriately to match the new lead song, completely oblivious to the addition of four new arrivals on the mortal plane that were now making their way to the mountain town.

Their arrival was muffled by the loud thundering echoes of banished demons and the noisy declaration of War sounding from Heaven. Even had he sensed their arrival of course, he'd have had trouble finding them, their spirits were shielded specifically against senses such as his. Knowing their arrival though, might have been enough to guess at their identities, or at least the one identity that mattered. Perhaps with such knowledge he might have acted to change the course of things to come, or then again perhaps not. Free will could be a wonderfully and terribly unpredictable thing.

**

* * *

**"Isolation! A century of seclusion to cool my heels! I am to be stuck in this tower while the most important events since the birth of Christ come to pass. The boy is to blame and yet I'm exiled as well?!" Through the empty chambers of his tower, Sariel shouted out his ire to imaginary attendants. He was all but frothing at the mouth in fury and had been since the ringing song of trumpets had penetrated his prison, touching off his solitary diatribe. He knew the sound; every angel recognized it by heart. War was coming. Azazel and Penemue were finally moving to end the long stalemate and he'd have no part in the upcoming glory because he let his control slip around that infernally irritating brat. Worse he'd been wrong; the boy's departure was no triumph for Sariel. It was painfully clear to Sariel now that they hadn't been sending the boy away in shame, but out of concern for his 'precious safety' before they orchestrated their final play for power. No the only one being cast aside was Sariel.

"I have done nothing but serve faithfully since the Fall. I turned from God himself to follow this new order. I was forced to descend to these stinking bowels of the Earth, where I have lived for two thousand years in a place where the stars I helped name cannot even shine upon me. All in the name of the Morningstar. All for Lucifer's 'daring' vision. And now his sight cannot see farther than the dick of the next mortal plaything to tumble between the sheets of his bed." Venom and disgust alike dripped from the ranting Fallen's words. Fire far brighter than the sheath of flame Damien had threatened him with earlier that same day, surged away from his feet and then back in. As the ocean's waves rise and fall to the pull of the moon, so behaved the tumbling flame, cresting and retreating beneath him in response to the emotions pouring out from the unbalanced Fallen.

The breaks in his ordered core were deep, cracks that had been wedged open and pried apart by the chaotic powers they were all forced to use. Penemue was right; it had been far too long since Sariel had taken the time to step away from his power and allow the gift of Immortality the time to smooth out the scars that demonic energies left upon the psyche. Alas, the realization was far too late. While no Immortal could be broken beyond repair, Sariel was well past the point where he saw a need to stop and give the healing a chance to begin. It would take a mind far more rational than Sariel's was now, to willingly set aside the only tool he had left for what he desired most. Revenge. A chance to get back at the boy Penemue had spirited beyond his grasp.

"It's all his fault. The others were too caught up in his birth, too interested in the prophecies being fulfilled at last. They did not see the changes in our leader till too much time had passed; time to dissociate the changes from their cause. That boy. He's the reason Lucifer has grown weak. With every year he grows older, Satan is more of a shadow of his former glory. If we do not cut this rot free from him it will be just like our defeat before. As the Morningstar falls, so fall we all. Already we are on the verge of ruin, our wills anchored to a sinking stone. We who once ruled this place, who tamed chaos itself. And because of that boy we now huddle in this stone prison of our own making. And to keep him safe, they are starting another war against Heaven? A war we cannot hope to win in this condition? This madness has gone on long enough! I will stop Satan's descent if I have to purge the source of it from the Earth myself!" An image of Damien flashed into existence upon one stone wall, the fiery illusion perfectly catching the boy's insubordinate and mocking smile. A fist met the image and a lightning fast application of chaos altered the very nature of the stone wall behind it. The stone was changed to a more brittle material, weak enough to shatter before the blow. Pouring his wrath out upon the wall, he quickly hammered a new doorway out of his locked tower.

Leaping through the hole, he was soon falling towards the unwelcome ground below. Then sable wings flared out and an ill wind was conjured forth granting extra haste to his passage and moving him beyond sight of the tower and the Fallens' domain. Not following the cautious rule of applying power only precisely and directly, to minimize personal damage, he liberally poured it into the wind, though much of it was wasted on unfocused air currents and unnecessary overflow. He did not care about the waste or bother to focus the air stream into something more useful. He was literally mad with power considering that the energies he wielded were the very stuff of change and instability.

Still he was not insane just yet. There was a method to his madness. He did not fly to the Obsidian Gate in crazed pursuit of Azazel and the escort, who would most certainly cage him. Nor did he think to slip through to Limbo after and cross the Veil himself. To do so would draw the attention of starry eyes and the wrath of Heaven that soon followed the Dominion's sentry-like gaze. No he had no intention of soiling his own hand when there were plenty of demons do the dirty work for him. One demon in particular he needed to secure the aid of, one who could provide a veritable army of assistance.

_Oh yes! This will be an elegant solution indeed._ He'd watched the escort party depart from his position of unrepentant waiting in Penemue's study. His mind had managed some shrewd calculation then, even as his eyes burned with hate. He'd recognized Penemue's little pet projects leaving with Damien. _Let the boy's precious keeper's curiosity be the insolent whelp's undoing._

**

* * *

**A tired yawn fell from Ike as he finished the last of his homework for the night. _I really should have finished this sooner. But that would have meant leaving Wendy sooner._

A blush rose to Ike's cheeks in memory of the pleasant day spent with the girl. Not that there was much of a reason to blush. Wendy Testabruger was far too proper to have a thing for a boy five years younger than her. Ike on the other hand was an old hand at falling for older women. After all his first love had been his kindergarten teacher, Ms. Stephenson, who had surpassed him by more than two decades of life. His crushes since had become a bit more 'reasonable.' Still he'd not had the luck to find a girl he liked, who was willing to overlook the age gap, since the first. A boy could dream though couldn't he? Maybe in ten years, Wendy would realize that twenty-two to twenty-seven wasn't nearly as big a gap as twelve to seventeen. _And if she doesn't, I'll eventually find some other girl with that perfect mix of fiery passion, soft tenderness, and piercing intellect._

Ike was a great believer in things working out eventually. Not an over the top optimist, but a pragmatist willing to believe that things trend a little more towards up than down. Especially if you were willing to put your all into it. If his brother could somehow get Stanley Marsh to fall in love with him, in spite of all of Kyle's bitchy tirades, bossy moments, and insufferable know-it-all tendencies, then Ike could certainly manage a second girlfriend one day.

Pushing the worries aside, Ike considered the comfortably inviting bed beside his computer. Ruefully he turned away from the temptation and instead accessed a web browser page.

_I really should sleep. But Wendy did ask me to do her that one tiny favor. It can't hurt to take a peak real quick and see if I find anything. If not I'll go to sleep and look harder when I don't have so much work due the next day_.

Just as he finished typing 'Yardale' and pressing the enter key his cell phone rang. Pachabell's brassy notes sounded clearly from his Razor and he turned away from the computer screen to check the caller.

The name on the screen caused his eyebrows to slip upward in surprise. He checked to make sure his door was closed before answering the phone.

"What's up, Mole?"

"Ike. I 'ave need of a favor, mon ami. One mercenary to another. I need your particular skills."

"A favor for you? What's the job and how soon does it need to be done? I should warn you, if you want something demolished I won't be able to do much for awhile. Sarah Palin tapped out my stock of C4 for that little fiasco with the new Chief Justice appointment back in July."

"She was ze one who orchestrated ze Bill of Rights caper?"

"You know I can't answer that over a cell phone, but…Boom Baby."

A rough chuckle sounded from the phone and Ike grinned at the shared joke. Christophe had done some work of his own for the McCain and Palin crew and was familiar with their quirks. That was actually how the two boys had first come into contact, meeting on a job involving excavating a way into Fort Knox. Out of professional courtesy they'd maintained the communication since, developing a friendly enough relationship, at least for two people involved in their particular business.

"Well it's nozing like zat Ike. I just want you to do a little checking up on an old friend of mine who 'as come back to town. 'is name's Gregory Zorne. I don't have much beside zat to give you, ozer zan 'e claims 'e went to school at a place called Yardale. Somewhere in England I assume. I know zat's not much to go on."

Ike quickly bit back an exclamation of surprise. He made sure to keep his voice completely level when he replied.

"I think I can fit in some time to do some checking up. I'll let you know what I find in a day or two. Three days at the latest."

He felt no guilt over concealing from Christophe that Wendy had already set him on that self same project. He intended to do the same thing to Wendy when he told her whatever he managed to find. A little bit of discretion was an inherent part of the mercenary work both boys enjoyed. And he hoped that one of the two might let something else of interest slip back to him. A chance that would be twice as likely if both parties were in the dark about the other's curiosity. _I can always spring that tidbit on them later, when it might prove more useful._

"Zanks Ike. I'll make sure you're paid well for ze trouble. Double the usual rate if you can do it quickly."

"With that kind of incentive, I'll get started right away. Night Mole."

"Night, Ike."

When the phone clicked audibly to signal the dead line, Ike let out an excited whoop. What irony that he started the project out pro bono and was now going to get paid for it twice over. And he'd still get the gratitude doing a favor for Wendy.

Ike's excitement was more amused than avaricious. Neither he nor Christophe particularly needed the money. They were both well enough off from past jobs. Palin and McCain especially, had paid well.

There was something else to be excited about, a feeling that caused Ike's breath to quicken in anticipation. Ike had lived in this crazy town all his life; sometimes one could get a sense for when things were shaping up for some kind of insane spectacle. This felt like it was going to be South Park at its worst and with luck he'd have a front row seat for this one. He was already tipped off as to where the action might start.

_Alright Mr. Thorne, let's see what we can dig up about you and Yardale._ Ike was intrigued in spite of the rather unimpressive meeting he'd had with the boy earlier that day. There had to be some reason both Wendy and Christophe were buzzing like flies to honey with interest in the boy.

The waiting bed was completely forgotten now. The light of the computer screen and the rapid clicking of the keyboard filled the room, until well in the night. The boy did not move from his seat as surprisingly search after search turned up with nothing of use. He was in about to close the most recent page, assuming it was yet another false hit, when something at the bottom caught his attention.

The rhythmic ticking of the keys stopped as he moved a hand to rub his eyes, sure his tiredness was causing him to misread. When the information on the page did not change, he quickly saved the page, and turned on his printer. Once he had two copies printed, he let out a tired yawn and slipped them into his backpack. Then he quickly copied a number off the webpage into his cell phone to call in the morning. Finished at last he turned off the computer screen and navigated his way to bed. With a satisfied smile for both a completed job and the proof he'd found to justify that sensation of impending South Park style madness, Ike drifted off to sleep.


	11. Ch 9: Murphy Loves Mondays

**A/N:** And now back to your regularly scheduled chapters. Considering my own personal feelings towards Monday's this chapter was a delight to write. Thanks again to readers and reviewers alike!

Sky

* * *

"Mondays are the potholes in the road of life."Dan Saloman

WPW Chapter 9: Murphy Loves Mondays

At the crossroads he stood, torn between the two paths. There was no inherent clue to lead towards choosing one or the other, nor did he have any recollection as to where he was going. To the right the hallway stretched into the distance until it seemed the two gold etched walls of painfully bright white stone met as one in the distance. To the left, he might have been looking in a mirror, every alcove and every detail appeared the same, at least for as far down the hall as his eyes could see. _Where am I going? Which way do I choose? Does it matter? Probably not in this place_.

Who was to say both hallways didn't meet at some point in the distance, connecting in an endless loop? So why choose at all? Why keep walking down an unchanging hallway just to end up at the same crossroads and make the decision again? No sooner had he reached the decision to not decide than a hand settled on his shoulder, causing him to turn with a start.

He was face to face with a man whose posture was rigid and closed. Golden hair straight and long framed a face that was so unmarked by wrinkles or lines, that it was entirely possible it had never smiled or frowned in its life. The eyes were was hard and unflinching as moonlight on steel, a silvery hue that was flat and unrevealing for all its brightness. Behind the face, wings arched upward, the same shade as the eyes and as achingly bright as they caught the permeating light of the place.

_Silver wings?! What is one of his kind doing here?_ The figure tried to step away from the angelic creature in shock, but the creature's grip was as solid as stone, holding him in place. Though it did not aid his escape, the attempt did elicit a response from the being.

"What are you doing standing here Brother? He's waiting."

Questions danced at the tip of the tongue, but his mouth was unwilling to obey his mind's command to ask them. _Who's waiting? Who are you? Why are you here?_ The tiny voice in his mind was the only one to give utterance to the queries. Then the voice stopped altogether as a more chilling thought occurred. The stunning appearance of the being and the strange alien décor of the halls around him lead to one fearful conclusion. _Never mind him, why am I here? If 'here' is where I think it is…_

A second hand grasped his free shoulder, softer than the first though only by the smallest of margins. With trepidation he turned away from the fearsome gaze of the angel to face a second one on his other side, nearly a mirror for the first if with a slightly gentler cast to his expression.

"Something troubles you Brother? There's no need for such worries here. Embrace the peace. Go to Him. Everything will be better," the voices differed in timbre, but the familiarity they had for him was the same as was a certain blankness of tone, dullness in the inflection that left it devoid of deeper emotions.

_Brother? Peace? By him do you mean the Him? What does He want with me? Where am I supposed to be going? There's no way to tell._ Reasonable questions, important questions, questions he would dearly love the answers too, yet his mouth would not ask a single one of them aloud. With resignation he turned to face forward to see if perhaps he had missed some subtle clue as to where he was supposed to go. The view that greeted him was completely different from the crossroads he had been faced with earlier. Now there was only a single arching entranceway that opened into an impossibly large chamber beyond; no signs remained of the narrow infinite hallways that had previously lain before him.

The weight of hands lifted from both shoulders and a quick glance revealed both figures had disappeared, swallowed into a thick grey mists that was advancing from behind him. A shiver of nervousness passed through him at the stealthy approach of the impenetrable fog that had swallowed the two angels so quickly and suddenly. Fear lent his feet strength where courage had failed him and he entered the vast chamber in a rush.

Within were no visible walls just endless white floors that stretched away under a vast starry sky. At this point the figure was no longer surprised when even the archway he had come through was gone, lost in the vastness of the room. Only before him was there a break in the vast vista of emptiness. The floor rose in a tiered dais, steps leading to an upraised area. The dais was laid out in a square design, each corner marked by a gigantic marble statue, four looming winged guardians facing not outward, but inward in contemplation of the dais's center. The dais only rose to eye level and if he stood as tall as he could, he could make out the center, but saw nothing immediately visible at the focal point of the statue's attention.

So with curious caution, he approached for a closer look, feeling far more discomfort than the so called 'peace' that he was supposed to be embracing. As his foot settled upon the first step of the dais he felt something change, a thickening in the air, an unseen dragging weight, as if an invisible cloak had been draped across his shoulders. Then fear was fading away, draining itself from his mind as water through a sieve. Everything else was following the fear, slipping through the fingers of his thoughts deftly. The curiosity, the worry, the caution, the unease all swept away before a rising feeling of contentment. It should have been pleasant, he was filling with tranquility after all, but at first it was abhorrent, an intrusion, if such a thing was possible, of unwelcome satisfaction. Yet even the irritation and discomfort were pushed aside, leaving only the echo of their complaint in the blankness of enveloping disconnection from his more volatile emotions.

No longer pushed forward by curiosity, yet no longer held back by fear he stood on that step unmoving, until a bodiless voice urged him onward again.

"Go to Him Brother"

The command fell upon the empty shell of a bieng, providing a direction that the figure no longer had. A second step up was met with another change this time upon the chamber around him.

At first it went almost undetected, a subtle lightening in the air, making the statues appear to be a softer grey and the floor seem a more pristine shade of white. Yet the light intensified, until the floor was a blazing glow, reflecting the even brighter incandescence originating from the dais center still above and ahead of him. Briefly he could still look up, now seeing the statues as nothing but vague shadows around which the light poured forth. Then his eyes dropped to the floor, which for the moment was less blinding. Still the light swelled brighter and at last he had to shut his eyes against it, raising his hand to further shield his face from the intensity. The light slipped between clenched fingers and suddenly he could trace the blood vessels in his eyelids, illuminated as they were by the pervasive glow. Then even his lids started to fail him, the light starting to peak through as if he was shielding his eyes with nothing more than clear glass. With searing fury the light lanced through to his pupils, setting his eyes afire, burning his retinas away with the invasion. Only the tiny voice in his mind responded, frantically ordering his legs to flee, begging his mouth to scream. In vain the tiny voice tried to get a response, yet the enforced tranquility held him in check, not even allowing his mind the satisfaction of terror or agony before the blinding onslaught.

In protest the tiny voice screamed for the mouth that wouldn't, a silent wail of agony that twisted with horror when his own body shifted and his foot took a third step up the dais. The light surged impossibly brighter, burning everything away.

**

* * *

**

The blinding agony was everywhere, glaring, piercing, seeping through every crack in his lids, stabbing at his eyes. The leaden peace was gone now at least allowing the terror and shock to spring to the fore, finally giving the body the impetus to release a groan of agony.

Lungs swelled, a mouth opened, and the pain was no longer voiceless but loud and insistent, a plea for assistance. And in response to that plea came a horrifying wail, followed by a deafening barking filling is ears. _Wait…barking?_ At once his own sounds cut off, choked quiet by his surprise. His mind tried to tear through the cobwebs of surprise and disorientation.

The barking stopped when his own cries ceased, replaced by a plaintive whining, and then a shifting in the surface he lay on. Something was moving towards him, its weight disturbing the ground beneath him. He was still unwilling to open his eyes to see what approached for though the brightness was dimmer than he had feared earlier, it was still glaringly painful. At least it was no longer washing his world in a white, but casting it into a soft orange and peach glow, tinted as it was by its travel through his closed eyelids.

Suddenly a spot of coldness touched his cheek. Startled, he blindly reached out with one hand, to brush the furred face of a canine, its nose pressed in a comforting and querying fashion against his cheek. Placing the other hand in a shielding position across his vision, Damien opened his eyes slowly, flinching and squinting cautiously against the brightness of the morning sun.

He was face to face with a concerned Cerberus; sitting upright in a foreign bedroom, while at the foot of his bed, an exposed window let the shining fury of the solar sphere into his room. The memory of where he was and who he was finally surged him to full wakefulness. With chagrin he realized he'd just had a nightmare, nothing more.

_A dream. Just a fucked up dream. Probably caused by the damn sunlight creeping in._ He tried to make out his surroundings, but found it too difficult to see against the sunlight streaming in. An inquiring lick on his check reassured him that Cer was still close by, but without handling the light he'd have no more luck getting his bearings. Damien inched along the surface of his bed towards the window, moving the hand resting on Cerberus outward to reach for the curtains. With one quick half-blind yank he freed the dark cloth from its restraints. The curtains fell across the window, cutting off most of the glinting shine of sunlight reflecting off the white snow outside. At last relieved from the uncomfortable intensity of a light far brighter than what he'd been accustomed to in Hell, Damien let the hand shielding his eyes drop, so he could at last examine his surroundings.

His room was relatively empty, the only things in it being the bed he and Cer rested on, a desk with chair, and a single dresser. On the floor he could make out the shape of his travel pack, still lying where he'd dropped it before collapsing exhaustedly last night. The walls were the dull eggshell white that so briefly plagues new houses, the bland shade that most people paint away the instant the deed changes hands in their eagerness to inflict some personality on their new home. The carpet was a similar neutral shade, if in a slightly darker hue to hide any possible dirt guests and visitors might track in before the house was sold. A small door on one side was open to reveal a tiny closet.

With a final sweeping gaze, he settled into the room with a feeling of satisfaction in spite of all of its bland empty glory. _At least the walls aren't dark grey, the floor isn't stone, and there's no raging fire in the sky. _An uncomfortable wince crossed his face as Cerberus slipped off the bed, brushing past the curtains and letting a lance of light peak through. _Well at least there's not an 'infernal' raging fire in the sky. I'm going to have to get used to the sun fast, or go around wearing sunglasses like a freak all day. If last time was any indication, I'm going to have a hard enough time with these guys without that kind of stigmatism. _

Damien groaned as he joined Cerberus in getting off of the bed, his legs protesting the action heartily. With a lurch he tried to walk, fighting through the stiffness of leg muscles that had not been properly stretched after their vigorous workout the night before. At last satisfied he could stumble about if not exactly move with grace, he found himself unsure what to do first for the morning, having never been much of a morning person. Well he assumed he wasn't a morning person; there weren't exactly sunrises and sunsets to go by down home. Fortunately Cerberus solved the dilemma, catching Damien's attention by scratching at the door out of the room and whining piteously.

"Nature calling boy? I didn't know you would behave like an indoor dog. I'm glad you decided not to just do it in here."

Cerberus shot him a look that said in no uncertain terms, _I haven't ruled out that possibility just yet, so you better move it damn it._

Grinning in the face of Cerberus's obvious displeasure, Damien rushed over, opening the door and letting Cerberus race past him and out into the hallway. He followed gamely behind, though he had to squint again against the brighter light in the rest of the house. Even with eyes half closed he managed the path to the front door easily enough remembering his tired stumble to his room from the night before. He opened the door and Cerberus rushed out, seemingly unaffected by the glaring light and frigid air outside. With a look of envy for the blur that he assumed was Cerberus, Damien slowly allowed himself to acclimate to the blinding light, forcing his eyes wider inch by inch. He'd finally reached the point where he could actually see without tears forming, when Cerberus returned, slipping past him and back into the warm house eagerly. Damien remained outside a moment longer, savoring the triumph of conquering the annoying sunlight, before a gust of wind struck him. Briefly he was tempted to try and face down the cold air as he had the sun, but retreated instead, reassuring himself that it was the grumble in his stomach and not the biting wind that drove him inside.

The rumbling increased in volume when his nose detected an aroma that could only be described as heavenly in spite of the normal disquiet that adjective caused him. He followed the tantalizing scent all the way to the kitchen where he found a disgustingly picturesque family morning awaiting him. A table was laid out already, three plates set out and waiting. The center was stacked with an almost nauseatingly large assortment of food, pancakes, bacon, eggs, sausages, biscuits and more. At one seat Lee was already seated, leafing through a newspaper. _I wonder if he's even reading it, or just leafing through on auto-pilot because it's the fatherly thing to do while waiting for breakfast._

Jen's back was to Damien, accented by the tidy white bow of apron strings, as she worked over the stove. Expertly she flipped pancakes with one hand while spearing bacon off a skillet with the other, the whole time humming some inane tune. Even Cerberus had betrayed him to cave in and play along, standing at the foot of the stove looking up at Jen with a pathetic begging face.

Damien racked his brain for something appropriately scathing to say to his traitorous friend when Jen turned towards the table carrying dishes heaped with more food in both hands. Upon seeing Damien she smiled in delight as she carried the dishes over. Cerberus followed eagerly hoping undoubtedly that Jen would accidentally spill on her way to the table. Unfortunately, Jen managed the feat as if she'd been a waitress all her life, depositing the freshest pancakes on what must surely be Damien's plate with the way she tossed him an encouraging grin.

"Well go on dear. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day and we can't have our little man starved on his first day at a new school!"

Lee looked up, jolted into paying attention at Jen's words. He folded his newspaper and set it aside before rubbing his hands in anticipation as Jen served him as well.

"Your mother is right son. No one likes to make friends on an empty stomach so you'd better tuck in to this excellent meal she's prepared!"

Rage, disgust, revulsion, they all battled for a moment on Damien's face, before another whiff of the breakfast reached his nostrils and his stomach proved the strongest force of all. He walked to his spot at the table, glowering and muttering the entire way. He ungracefully surrendered to the stupid façade only long enough to satisfy the gnawing pit in his stomach. With a faint hope that the smells were genuine and not some demonic trick, he followed Lee's advice and took a tentative bite only to be followed by a second, then hasty third as he began to dig in. _Wherever Penemue did to make them like this, at least Jen really did learn how to cook. This is….so much better than anything the Fallen ever gave me. Why couldn't they train a demon to do this in Dis?_

A nudge at Damien's hip drew his attention downward to see Cerberus practicing his begging face on Damien. Clearly he had found Jen quite immune to the look while she was distracted by cooking.

"Oh so you're perfectly happy to play along with this mess to get fed are you? Traitor."

For once Cerberus didn't bother with any smart looks or hidden messages in his expression, but instead tilted his head to the side and widened his eyes farther, offering an abjectly pleading look before tossing in a soft whine.

Damien turned away, determined to fight off his friend's manipulation. Determined that is until Lee spoke up.

"That's a smart idea son, making sure he doesn't eat while we're at the table. That would just reinforce bad habits in him. He can eat as soon as we're done."

That was all the motivation Damien needed to grab the dish piled with bacon off the table and set it firmly on the ground. Hungrily Cerberus attacked the food completely unaware that his magnificent begging performance was only half the reason for the delicious treat.

Damien turned a gloating look upon Lee, eager to see how the demon would respond to the baiting, but Lee simply shrugged in a 'boys will be boys' manner and returned to his own breakfast. Meanwhile Jen returned to the table, took in the missing bacon plate with a single glance, and simply pushed aside space on the sausage bowl to set the bacon she'd finished frying. Feeling rather put out at everyone's indifference, Damien unhappily realized he just wasn't going to win against anyone this morning and finished his breakfast in silence.

**

* * *

**

A hot shower was all it took to wash away the dirty feeling from his failed attempts to get a rise out of his step-parents, as well as his sour mood from the night before. The relaxing water left him in a pleasant state between content and refreshed as he stepped out of the bathroom. Finally he was actually pleased with the way things were going, at least temporarily, feeling far mellower than any point in this adventure of his since waking up in the snow the night before. He was so at peace that he even decided to forego the internal monologue of complaint, even when the hairs on his arm lifted in goose bumps at the brisk air that brushed over his skin while it drip dried on his walk back to his room. He was almost to his door when Jen wandered into the hallway with a broom in one hand. Once glance and Damien and she blushed before dropping the broom with a shriek and covering her eyes.

"Damien, really dear. You should at least wear a towel when you get out of the shower! What if we had neighbors over! What would they think if they saw you streaking around like this?"

Quite confused at just what the problem was with air drying after a shower, Damien shrugged, before immodestly continuing his way to his bedroom, while Jen continued to use her hand to block the inappropriate display. It wasn't that Damien was particularly obtuse or unaware of the differences between boys and girls, he was just raised by a host of entirely male Fallen who excluding his father had no interest or care for the concepts of sex and nudity. The fact that the Fallen looked down on his father for such concerns only reinforced Damien's determination to prove himself better than his sire, and he managed to be as unconcerned with such things as his overseers. The Fallen only wore clothes because they'd worn clothes since the day of their formation, treating them more as a uniform than a cover for their shame, so why shouldn't Damien do the same? The result of this unique upbringing was that Damien could wander into a nudist colony without batting an eye and was probably the only teen in the history of creation to never have been tormented by the nightmare of being in class in only his underwear or worse nothing at all.

Closing the door on the gasping and horrified Jen, Damien arched an eyebrow at the sight of Cerberus, now in Saint Bernard form, already curled up in his bed. Not even a wag of the tail greeted Damien's return from the shower as Cer was far too busy napping off his breakfast.

"Is this all you plan on doing today? Eat and sleep and crap? I've been saddled with the weirdest demons and the laziest beast in Hell? You'd think with three of you in that skull of yours you'd have the energy to pretend to be excited, at least till I left for school."

A sigh was the only response from Cer and Damien was forced to give up teasing the beast. Instead he opted on getting dressed, the chill finally starting to get to him. Rummaging though his travel pack, he snagged the first pair of slate grey boxers and black slacks he found. A more thorough search yielded his favorite leather belt and shoes. With a thought to the chill he'd been faced with during Cerberus's morning excursion, he decided on two shirts. The first layer was long sleeved, a dark red almost sanguine undershirt, followed by a short sleeved black shirt over top. A quick check with his hands showed that the shoulder-blade cuts in the top shirt did not line up with the ones in the bottom shirt, so at least he'd not have to worry about the cold air getting to him directly. He was trying to figure out just what else he'd need for his first day of school when a knock sounded at his door.

"What?"

"It's your mother dear, are you almost ready for school?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Mind if I come in? I have some things you'll need for today!"

"What are they?"

"It's a surprise! You'll have to let me in!"

Damien's expression soured at the idea of having to continue humoring this stupid game Lee and Jen were playing. Then he relinquished the idea of fighting it for now. He'd seen how well that went over at breakfast. Besides there was no harm in at least getting in some practice interacting with them on the painfully horrifying chance he was ever seen in public with them.

"Fine! Come in."

The door cracked open as Jen entered blindly, one hand still shielding her eyes.

"Are you decent?"

"Cut the crap, I've got clothes on. Now what's so important?"

Dropping the hand from her eyes, Jen entered the room keeping her second hand behind her back hiding something from Damien. A twinkle in her eye warned Damien she might be lame enough to try to make him guess. Rather than put up with it he cut directly to the chase.

"Just spill it. What are you hiding?"

Smiling brilliantly Jen whipped out her surprise, thrusting a pale blue backpack and soft grey coat into Damien's stunned hands. The pack he dropped as if it was on fire, horrified at the idea of having to wear anything so obnoxiously colored. The coat at least fell under the "acceptable" range of shades and looked warm. He slipped into it, finding the fabric heavy enough to help him shrug off the unbearably low temperature ranges on Earth. _Why couldn't they have given me something like this last night before the two hour walk here?!_

"Well this coat works at least. I guess."

"Your welcome dear," Jen responded to the statement as if Damien had just finished gushing gratitude at her. She gently knelt down, picking up and dusting off the backpack before holding it back out to him. "You'll need this for your first day of school! Pencils, notebooks, everything the note from your new principal said you'd need has been packed inside! I also prepared a lunch, PB&J with the crust cut off, Capri Sun Juice boxes, your daily serving of fruits and vegetables, and Jello for desert! I made sure to get all of your favorites, just to help make sure you have a perfect first day!"

"What the hell is PB&J? And Jello? I don't have favorites; I've never heard of any of that crap before!"

Jen ignored the complaint continuing her motherly pep talk.

"Now don't worry if you forget or lose anything. I sewed a tag with your address and name into the back of your backpack! See?" With a quick flourish, she turned the pack around to show that indeed she had gone as far as to label the hideous item with his actual name on it. A shudder of revulsion swept Damien at the idea that even if he misplaced the offending item, it could still be used to embarrass him. He quickly snatched the bag from her before she could reveal any other terrible ideas she might have such as sewing on a peace patch, or offering him stickers.

"Fine. I got it. You've thought of everything, great. Now leave me alone."

"Awww, is my little man a bundle of nerves? Well I'll give you a minute to finish up getting ready and say bye to your dog. I know you'll miss him almost as much as he'll miss you today. The bus is supposed to arrive in ten minutes so don't take too long."

Jen barely made it out of the room ahead of the door Damien slammed behind her. With an angry mutter he tugged at the backpack trying to no avail to rip off the offending label. Finally he gave up; her sewing skills were apparently a match for her cooking. He'd have to wait till he could get his hands on something sharp to cut it free.

A second knock interrupted Damien's pained study of the offending backpack. By now the moderate good mood of the shower was gone; with his bad mood steadily increasing he completely abandoned the idea of playing along.

"What do you want you stupid demons?! Give me some damned peace already! You're not my parents; I'm not your son. Leave me alone for five damned minutes."

"Damien," Lee's voice sounded through the door, "let me in."

Damien was about to ignore the request completely, quite prepared to actually shove his weight against the door if necessary to keep Lee out when he reconsidered what Lee had just said. Never in the annoyingly painful time since the two demons had begun talking, had either actually used his real name.

He opened the door slowly, looking at Lee warily through the crack.

"Penemue?"

Lee's eyebrow arched in a perfect imitation of his overseer as he replied in Lee's voice, but with an inflection that was definitely all Penemue.

"Who else would it be Damien? I take it from that little tantrum that you are not pleased with my selection for your parents?"

"That's an understatement. What would make you think I'd be pleased with what you did to them? You've made them into the most annoying, sappy freaks on Earth."

Lee's face had the decency to look chagrined at that piece of information.

"Well I'm afraid I didn't have a lot of material to work with. I figured after years of being stuck with us, you might appreciate a chance to have normal parents for a bit. All the children on those shows seemed happy with parents that behaved like this."

The confession took the edge off Damien's irritation, but only just. He let the door open fully, allowing Penemue/Lee to enter.

"Trust me Penemue. These guys are anything but normal, especially for this time period. Just tell me you can tinker around with them while you're in there and change them into something a little less, sweet and happy. Well no, a lot less sweet and happy"

Penemue/Lee gave a regretful shake of his head and Damien felt his hopes dash away.

"I'm afraid not Damien. It's one thing to use them as eyes and ears; they were made for that so it takes no real energy to slip in and out of them. But to actually alter the Working that's modifying their behavior would be far too large a use of power I'm afraid. You'll have to deal with them as is."

"But Penemue. Look what they're doing to me!" Damien held up the offending backpack as proof of the injustice.

"That is a bit…bright isn't it?" Penemue/Lee grimaced at the unpleasantly cheerful colors.

"It's baby blue Penemue. _Baby_ blue. How the hell am I going to fit in with a bunch of seniors in High School with a baby blue backpack?"

With a sigh Penemue/Lee gave in. "I suppose…it wouldn't hurt to alter the pack a little. The change of color is a relatively 'light' use of chaos. You can do it this time. But remember to use restraint Damien. You should only-"

"I know. I know. Only use your power as a last resort. Danger. Heaven. Demons. All that stuff."

Penemue/Lee frowned at the light tone Damien took to a very serious warning, but Damien was too busy focusing on his backpack to notice or care. He let the faintest trickle of power seep into it, just enough to alter the hue to a respectable crimson shade. He was briefly tempted to burn the label off while he was at it, but recalled that Penemue was watching and held back.

"Good Damien. That should be fine. Now there is one other thing I should mention before you have to go to school."

Damien nodded distractedly, admiring his handiwork and the much nicer looking pack. He was tempted to tweak the shade of the coat to match, but again restrained himself. Penemue was granting him quite a bit of leeway and the idea of failing his overseer's trust was more displeasing than wearing a grey coat that was a little too light.

Taking the nod as cue to go on Penemue/Lee reached into his tweed coat pocket and pulled out a list written in Penemue's elegant handwriting.

"As it is my responsibility to oversee your schooling, I took the liberty of selecting your class schedule for you and sending the appropriate documentation to the school via our agents. I believe everything there should be well within your capabilities. You should be more than able to meet any standards these _mortals_ place on literature and history." Penemue/Lee's tone dripped with the scorn he felt for the idea of any being with a lifespan measured in less than at least centuries trying to comprehend the flow of time and events. "I've chosen chemistry for your science. Your understanding of the volatile elements and the fundamental concepts of chaos should help you acclimate to the unusual approach they take to the manipulation of objects and fluids up here. Just try not to destroy anything; their methods are if anything less stable than demonic ones. Endure the mathematics as best you can, their system is odd but at least follows strict rules and regulations so it is manageable. I was informed that physical education is mandatory, but I doubt that will bother you. You seem to prefer having a physical outlet for your aggressions. For your electives I selected Astronomy and Religious Debate."

Damien turned on Penemue/Lee with obvious irritation at that selection but a raised hand forestalled his words, and Penemue/Lee continued speaking over his hushed objections.

"It goes without saying your performance with Sariel was less than desirable. I'm willing to allow Sariel some blame in this, especially considering recent incidents." A look of concern crossed his face, as Penemue/Lee recalled the search that had still turned up no sign of the missing Fallen. He resisted the urge to inform the boy, certain that Damien's position on Earth rendered him safe from Sariel's reach, and preferring that Damien's remained focused on his own troubles for now. "It is my hope that this gap in your education might be bridged by a more fundamental approach to the stars. You might also find it easier having the actual celestial bodies visible. I have included in your things a book, by Sariel of course, that should cover the gaps your Astronomy class will have on the nature of celestial enchantment. Perhaps being denied your normal demonic power as an outlet, will give you the motivation to attempt some of them. Mortals can and do Work such power on occasion, so it certainly wouldn't attract the same unwarranted attention chaos use might draw up here. As for Religious Debate, a chance to see how mortals view the nature of divinity might serve as useful tool for you one day; in the end it's upon their souls that the balance of Heaven and Hell rest."

Damien resigned himself to the decision, if only because Penemue had clearly thought the point out to conclusion and would not change his mind at mere whining. Reluctantly he took the class schedule from Penemue/Lee and slipped it into his pocket. Penemue/Lee dropped a reassuring hand on Damien's shoulder and was undoubtedly about to offer words of encouragement, when Jen popped into the room smiling.

"OK you two. No more time for chit chat. The bus will be here any minute and you don't want to be late for your first day do you?"

While Damien winced at the sugary tone, Penemue/Lee grimaced again before abashedly meeting Damien's suffering look.

"I did overdo it a bit didn't I? Well, I'm sure you'll manage to endure it. Do well in your classes and keep an open eye. Never let your guard down, remember this is South Park, it's only marginally safer than Hell. I will check up with you in six days, on the Sabbath. And Damien…control your temper."

With that Penemue/Lee's face stiffened into a rigid vacant expression. Then the eyes flicked back to life and Lee was back to his unpleasantly pleasing fatherly self. Damien quickly brushed the comforting hand off his shoulder, grabbed his backpack and rushed for the front door.

As he walked down his driveway already musing over what lay ahead of him, he noticed two boys walking past his house. One, a blonde with that just-woke-up look to his hair was in a painfully bright orange jacket and worn blue jeans. The other boy's hair was at least as messy but dark brown, a match for his outfit of muted blacks and browns. Both were clearly his age and undoubtedly heading towards the school bus stop. Much more importantly, both were openly smoking as they walked past. Damien could care less about smoking itself, he'd gotten enough ash and soot in his lungs growing up thank you very much, but he was aware that 'smoking' fell under the list of illegal activities for kids his age. That meant these were definitely the kind of people he could stand to be around and hopefully be friends with.

He stepped onto the sidewalk behind them, quickening his pace to try and catch up. Silently he prepared himself for the all important moment of introduction, trying to figure out the coolest possible way to say hello. He was about to call out to get their attention, when the worst possible thing he could imagine interrupted him.

Lee and Jen had wandered out to the porch to see him off and were huddled together, arms linked behind each other's backs as they waved happily goodbye. This would have been bad enough, but they had also decided to shout final words of encouragement to him. The loud exclamations carried easily to Damien and to his dismay also to the two boys in front of him.

"Have a good first day dear! Try to make lots of new friends!"

"Remember champ, you only get one first impression, so make the best of it! I know you'll make us proud!"

Both boys had turned at the shouts, cigarettes dangling from two mouths opened wide in shock at the display his 'parents' were putting on. Then both leveled amused looks at Damien, grinning widely at his obvious embarrassment. He was saved from having to say anything by a flash of yellow at the end of the street where a bus was pulling up to a crowd of waiting children. Damien gritted his teeth, ducked his head in shame to avoid meeting their eyes and stormed between the two boys to catch the bus ahead. Behind him he heard both boys burst out in open laughter and he felt his ears turn red in reaction.

_Can't I get a fucking break? Thanks Lee and Jen, so glad I had your help with that all important 'first impression'. Can this day get any worse?!_


	12. Ch 10: Those Damned Blondes

**A/N:** Sorry for the horrific delay mates, but the nightmare that was failing on us all meant I had to push posting this till after I'd finished sequestering myself away for midterm studying. Anywho, I hope the chapter's length makes up for that! And it's content seeing as you might be able to tell from the title of this chappy that its almost entirely about the bushel of beloved, boisterous, and bouncy blondes that fill the South Park cast. I think I managed cameo's from all the ones I love save for Kenny, who at least comes up in conversation! Don't worry he's all about the next chappy, if you didn't guess that from the description of the two boys Damien was emberassed in front of.

I especially gave face time to my beloved Bebe. After countless stories of her as the oblivious slut, I felt the need to give her a respectable, loveable role. Well slightly more respectable she's still Bebe after all. I just can't forget that she turned down the evil power of her boobs once in fourth grade, and for that I'm willing to believe there's a shred of character and genuine sweetness underneath her 'Stupid Spoiled Whore' skirts and deadly shoe obsession.

If anything I hope you spend as much time laughing at this chapter as I did while writing it! As always thank you for reading.

~Sky

* * *

"The thing that is really hard, and really amazing, is giving up on being perfect and beginning the work of becoming yourself."~Anna Quindlen

WPW Chapter 10: Those Damned Blondes

With a meticulous eye to his appearance, Gregory scrutinized himself in his mirror for the eleventh time that morning. Every last hair was exactly where it should be, his soft beige shirt was tucked into the khaki's completely, and no wrinkle marred any visible spot on his shirt or pants. His hand ran lightly over the top of his hair, assuring himself by touch that indeed no strands were fighting the swept back flow he had enforced on the curls. A cautious smile for the mirror showed teeth cleaned of his morning meal.

Throughout the ritual inspection he only half paid attention to the details, letting his eyes and hands perform their tasks with little direction from his head. Inside his mind one of the reassuring mottos of angelkind was being repeated like a mantra. _Live for perfection and Perfection will live within you. _

Underneath that over-polished exterior and below that reverent mantra, a far less pretty monologue was twisting its way through his thoughts. He hadn't even gotten to school yet and his nerves were frayed from his brief talk with Jesus that morning. _The Fallen are moving on limbo and Heaven's at war…And I'm down here cut off from any news until Jesus tells me. Are my brother's safe? Are the Fallen going to invade Earth too? Am I safe? Would I even know it if they were here already? What if I'm needed in Heaven?_

The last at least he had an answer for. A rather scary answer actually, he'd have to tell them no. Even if Michael himself came forth in full splendor and brazenly demanded his return to Heaven, he'd have to face the Sword of God and rebuke him. That idea was about as comfortable as telling Christ to shove his sandals where the sun doesn't shine. Unfortunately it was that sandaled prophet who had put him in his current predicament, informing him that now more than ever his services were needed here. He'd gone a step further offering Gregory a very uncomfortable burden of sorts. The power of proxy. Until it was withdrawn, Gregory's word had the backing of Christ himself behind it for everything except the highest of decisions. It wasn't just a pretty saying either. When and if he spoke to another of his kind, they'd know instinctively that his words were weighted with the authority of the son of God.

The logic was well considered, with such authority he could neatly silence any messenger coming with orders or demands that he return to serve in the armies of Heaven without having to rush to Christ for confirmation. There was of course the far less pleasant fact that it would also ruffle the feathers of every pure blooded angel in the Shining City. A half-breed walking around with the voice of the scion? Unheard of. An absolute disregard to the hierarchies and Rules. From lowest of the low to almost an equal to an Arch-Angel even if only temporarily was a terrifying breach in etiquette. With such huge pressure on his shoulders it was no wonder he was stuck in front of the mirror operating on auto-pilot, obsessing over making his appearance at least, live up to the new responsibilities he bore.

Finished with their routine, his eyes dropped to the schedule in front of him, to go over yet again the order of his day and reassure himself that he had every class's room and time memorized. The list had been offered to Christ by the school, as the best selections for a student with such an outstanding academic background. Excluding the two electives of course, Religious Studies and Visual Arts, which were "suggestions" from Jesus himself. The Religious Studies one had drawn an arch to Gregory's eyebrow when he first saw it, but Jesus had assured him that it might provide some much needed humor and relief from the tension of his tougher classes. Gregory was unconvinced. Christ was far too easily amused at some of the odd stances humans had on faith, for his part Gregory usually found them more scary than funny. As for Visual Arts, Gregory was initially at a complete loss as to why that one was selected. Until Christ had eagerly pointed out that the class offered sculpture as well as painting. Apparently during the sculpture portions, Jesus was brought in to teach. If there was one non ecclesiastic thing Christ loved it was woodworking. The idea of receiving instruction in something so mundane from the savior was enough to spark its own fit of stomach aching queasiness in Christ had spent more of his time alive as a carpenter than prophet, but that didn't make the idea settle any easier. Mixing his lives was hard enough without having to sit through even a day of class where the savior and his schoolmates might be in the same room.

A rapid fire sequence of knocks penetrated his viscous inner cycle of worries and doubts. With a quick check to make sure none of his struggle showed through the perfectly prepared mask of a calm and eager student, he took a quick breath before responding.

"Come in."

The door opened and Phillip popped into the room practically bounding to Gregory's side with excitement. He took in Gregory's position in front of the mirror and his obviously over groomed appearance with an amused grin. Gregory welcomed the intrusion, anything was better than being alone with his thoughts right now. He turned a casual eye to his friend's reflection inspecting Pip in the mirror more by force of habit from having done the same thing to himself so many times that morning.

Phillip was in many ways dressed in a similar fashion, at least in terms of being several leagues above and beyond the expectations of public school. Granted his pants were dark blue instead of brown, but still made of a material of higher quality than the denim standard that ruled the hallways of high school. Likewise he wore a waist-to-neck button up shirt, though his was in a neutral white and under a bold red blazer. Gregory was a bit surprised by the outfit after the dinner yesterday where Phililp had worn far more casual clothing. He had assumed that Phillip had dialed back on his manner of dress in the years since their first meeting. Apparently he was wrong, whatever school Phillip had attended before South Park had left its mark upon him eternally, at least when it came to school uniforms. Still there were a few tiny signs of relaxation in his manner, the bow tie had been replaced with a light red tie at least giving him a high school prep appearance rather than his prior little kid look. The biggest sign of change though was what he wore above the neck. His hair was still fell an almost effeminately long distance, just short of his shoulders, but it was no longer topped by his old flat hat. Instead his bangs arched and poked chaotically free from a more modern cap that hugged his head tightly and stopped just short of his ears. It was a brimless affair, similar to a skater cap or skull cap though of a more expensive cashmere material. It was almost entirely black save for a red stripe around the forehead and a small British flag patch on the right side. Gregory couldn't help but smile at the small rebellious bit of national pride sticking out all the more for its appearance on an otherwise completely neutral and symbol-less ensemble. Phillip caught the direction of his stare and smiled back.

"Do you like it? It's not the thing I'd normally wear, but it was a birthday gift from Butt- Leopold a few years back. The material's very soft and it's so much warmer than what I used to wear. And Leo claims it looks more 'in,' which I guess is to say I look more like a proper Yank."

"Except for the rather obvious British flag of course?"

"Well come on Gregory, we can't completely turn our backs on queen and country can we?" Phillip offered with a conspirational grin.

"Of course one can't." Gregory carefully edited his response to keep up the pretenses of British origin without actually claiming it for himself.

"So are you quite ready for school? Or are you going to break out an iron and smooth out that last wrinkle first?"

With alarm Gregory turned to the mirror frowning and inspecting himself for the so called wrinkle. Unable to locate the flaw he left a hint of panic creep into his voice as he queried Phillip.

"Where is it?"

Phillip grinned before pointing the wrinkled crease in Gregory's forehead that had come when he frowned in horror. Phillip's face was contorted by the effort to contain his laughter.

Gregory groaned painfully before glaring at the British jokester.

"Don't do that! I'm nervous enough about today."

"Like you have anything to worry about. Just smile, be extra super nice and everyone will come around eventually. Well…at least that's what the school counselors say. Besides you don't have to impress anyone, you'll have Leo and I to hang out with."

Gregory grinned uneasily. It was sweet that Phillip was trying to soothe his worries. If only his nerves were just up in arms about making friends at a new school and not an all consuming war that could end Heaven and Earth. Still Phillip didn't know that so he had to at least pretend to be cheered by the news.

"That's just great Pip. Er…Phillip?"

"Oh it's ok, just use Pip. The Madame is already in the library pouring over some random story so she can't hear and Charles's doesn't care what anyone calls someone else."

_So why do you keep catching yourself and referring to Butters by his proper name then?_ Gregory was tempted to ask the question, but wasn't entirely sure he wanted to start pointing out Pip's unusual behaviors. The intrusion would undoubtedly result in personal questions back at him. He opted for a much safer question instead.

"And you don't care? It is your name after all."

"Not anymore," Phillip replied. Then he grinned cheekily when he realized how that response might get interpreted, "I don't care that is. Phillip is still my name and all. I've just gotten used to Pip. It just doesn't bother me anymore, even if it started out as a name only used by people who didn't like me. But why fight it now? Even my teachers use it so it'd be awfully stupid to make my friends call me something else."

"If you say so," Gregory shrugged indifferently. Honestly he didn't care either way. As long as Phillip didn't mind and Madame Gavone wasn't in hearing, apparently Pip would suffice.

"I do then! And no more time for chitty-chats Gregory. And unless a speeding ticket is worth two more minutes with your hair, you should finish up so we can get there before the other kids!"

"Speeding ticket? Are you driving," suddenly all of his other worries like divine war didn't seem nearly as scary as the idea of the flighty and distractible Pip behind the wheel of a car rushing to make it to school.

"Oh goodness no! Charles will drive us. Last time I tried I forgot which side of the road I was supposed to be on and almost took out a whole row of cars. Ooopsies. First and only time I ever heard Charles swear. Now he absolutely insists that it's no trouble what-so-ever to be my driver as well as the Madame's. Now come on downstairs, you know he likes to be punctual!"

With that Pip turned around in a rush to follow his own advice. The lap-top bag that hung from Pip's shoulder collided with Gregory, knocking him into the mirror. With a moan of frustration Gregory noted random sprigs of hair suddenly knocked out of place by the impact. Pip, entirely oblivious to his destructive act, left the room whistling cheerily. Meanwhile Gregory was torn between fixing the mess and being on time. With a sigh he reached for his backpack and started for the door, only to rush back to the mirror moments later to try to frantically make a few last second adjustments. _Perfect. Everything has to be perfect damn it!_

**

* * *

**Thankfully Charles delivered them at the school perfectly on time, as could be expected, and without the speeding ticket Pip had ominously predicted. How he managed the feat considering their enormous delay was lost on Gregory who was far too distracted worrying. Worrying and trying not to throttle his overly chatty companion. It seemed with Charles silently focused on driving and Gregory silently focused inward, Pip had decided to fill in the conversational gaps for them all.

In spite of his many pressing concerns, the first emotion Gregory felt when the car finally stopped was immense relief triggered by the sudden silence from Pip. With a polite thank you to Charles, Gregory edged out of his seat and looked up at the ancient brick edifice of the entrance to his new school. Two stories of rather unimpressive crumbling architecture and a faded bronze marquee with the words 'South Park High' etched into it, adorned the primary building of the school. On both sides far more modern buildings were spread out, though all were connected to the ancient original structure and each other by covered walkways. Gregory had taken only two steps towards the main building when Pip grabbed his arm and nearly off balanced him as he yanked him in a different direction. The verbal barrage that had stopped briefly when Pip exited the car was back in full force.

"Don't bother going there silly. Only the administration and principal's offices are still in that old thing. If you already have a class schedule you should just go to your locker then homeroom. Since you're a senior both of them will be in the 400's building. Which is also probably where most of your classes are? You might have to go somewhere else for some of the electives since those are determined by the teacher giving them and not the grade level. And of course the gym isn't in here, it's in that building over there. Or the cafeteria I guess which is over there. And the library which you can't see from here. I guess if you're taking a remedial class it might put you in the junior building, that's the 300's over there, but you're probably not in any of those. I suppose if we have any school meetings it'll be in the auditorium over-"

Pip continued rambling on about the set up of the school, but Gregory was already in the practice of tuning him out after the car ride. Instead Gregory examined the 400's building for himself. Thanks to an odd architectural decision made by the designers he was getting a rather good look at his future classrooms. Glass windows dominated the sides of the building, only broken by small brick columns marking the separating walls between classrooms. Through the windows every classroom on this side of the building was on display like gigantic aquariums. He could make out several students slowly filing into the rooms that were visible. All in all it seemed rather 'exposed,' and Gregory had to wonder how horrible it must be for students to have an entire wall of sunny windows making the pleasant snowy meadows around South Park High easily visible throughout the school day.

The musing was interrupted when Pip stopped at one of the glass doors, opened it, and pushed Gregory in ahead. Once inside Pip held out his hand expectantly at Gregory who realized that he'd managed to tune out the boy too well and missed a question.

"I'm sorry I missed that Pip. What did you need?"

"Your locker assignment silly. I know where your homeroom is because it's the same as mine. All the seniors with last names starting with P through Z are in room 403. But I have no clue what your locker number and combination are. It should be on your class schedule."

Gregory dragged out the schedule with one hand though he didn't actually need it. The countless times he'd stared at it while mindlessly worrying over his morning had etched the details in his mind. This was convenient seeing as the moment the paper left his pocket Pip seized it and started reading it.

"Oh goody, L466 that's rather close to Leo's locker actually. That means we can wait for him by yours. Off we go then, come on!"

Thankfully Pip decided not to actually drag Gregory physically to his destination this time as his hands were busy holding Gregory's class schedule as he read it. In short order they arrived in front of Gregory's locker and before he even had a chance to try and open it, Pip was eagerly operating his lock. A few practiced turns and he opened it, before stepping back with a happy flourish and a smug grin.

The little display actually brought a genuine smile to Gregory's face as he finally started caving into the British boy's unrelenting cheerfulness. While Gregory slipped his belongings into the locker, Pip turned to leave for his own locker throwing a parting comment over his shoulder.

"While you do that I'll go put my stuff away. Just stay here, I'll be right back. Don't wander or you'll get lost. This place fills up when the buses arrive and I'd never find you. Lucky us we made rather good time in spite of you being silly so we get to deal with all this while its still quiet."

With that Pip was gone, vanishing around one of the corners. Gregory quickly put his jacket away and found that with no school books yet, there wasn't much else he needed to do with his locker. Seeing no signs of his exuberant guide returning, he decided to keep the locker open to least maintain the illusion of doing something rather than appear to be standing around lost in the halls. Meanwhile the door he'd entered through opened again and a few more students quietly stumbled in. No one was talking to anyone else, all still wrapped up in that universal moment of silent personal misery that marks every Monday morning at a school before the crowds arrive. Most walked past without even an acknowledging glance and only one actually stopped in the same row of lockers as him.

The boy's face was downcast; his eyes traced the floor as he walked up to his locker and slowly opened it. He removed his powder blue hat, to reveal pale yellow hair, sticking out in short spikes some of them in disarray caused by the static of the hat. The boy was in the middle of removing the matching jacket when his blue jeans began ringing in a cheerful cartoonish song. His eyes lit with panic and he struggled to free his arms from his jacket as quickly as possible, banging one of them into his locker loudly in the process. Wincing at the pain he managed to free his undamaged arm at last. The instant it was out of his jacket, his hand quickly dug a small blue cell-phone out of his pocket. The boy looked at the name on the phone before glancing around to make sure no one was paying attention. When his eyes shot in Gregory's direction, Gregory quickly averted his attention to his own locker as if fascinated with whatever he might have within. The boy opened the phone and answered in a quiet and resigned voice. Gregory's ears perked up to listen in; his attention peaked by the boy's secretive behavior.

"Hiya dad."

The boy was silent for a moment, listening to something on the other end.

"Yes sir. I'm in school."

More silence. Then the boy's voice picked up a hint of panic as his words poured out in a rush.

"N-n-no its only quiet 'cause most of the other kids aren't here yet. I came straight here, I promise. I didn't stop to talk to no one or nothin'."

While his father continued on the phone, the boy slowly began slipping his other arm free of his jacket, holding the phone to his ear by his shoulder so he could maneuver. He winced again when he had to twist the banged up arm a little to free itself from the sleeve. When he finally disentangled himself he put the jacket away. Then his father must have finished because he responded again in his original hushed tone.

"Yes sir. I'll go home straight away and call you as soon as I get in." He paused as his father must have interrupted with something then he continued resignedly, "I know. No TV, no company for another two weeks. I'll see you when you get home. I lo-" then the boy stopped talking mid sentence. He pulled the phone away from his ear. Clearly his father had hung up him already. With a soft and tired voice he finished to the now dead phone, "I love you dad."

Gregory had the sense to feel embarrassed at eavesdropping on the obviously innocent if somewhat depressing conversation. The hallway returned to silence and Gregory awkwardly wondered if he should take the opportunity to introduce himself or give the kid a moment of peace. Then the silence shattered as his loud guide returned.

"Alrighty Gregory! Sorry that took so long. I had to remember which text book had the homework in it for- Oh, Butters there you are! Top of the morning!"

With that Gregory whipped his head around; trying to spot the mysterious Butters Pip had talked about all weekend. Then another thought hit him. _Why is it Butters and not Leo now?_ The question was only compounded by more confusion when to his amazement Pip bounded right up to the boy that had just been sadly conversing on the phone. In a rather unmanly display of friendly affection, Pip wrapped the pale blonde in a happy hug.

Gregory was quite at a loss at the sudden revelation. From the stories Pip had told him, he had been expecting someone at least as cheery as Pip if not more so, not the rather reserved and withdrawn boy he had just observed. He was even more surprised by what he saw when Pip broke the hug and dragged the boy over to Gregory. Butters face was split with a wide smile quite at odds with the expression that had been on his face just moments before Pip had come crashing back onto the scene. Even though Pip had a grip on the very arm that had just slammed into a locker, Butters made no outward signs of complaint or pain. The boy greeted Gregory in a pleasing and light voice so strangely different from the one he'd been using on the phone.

"Hiya. I'm Butters. P-p-pip says we've met before, but gosh I don't remember ever meeting you."

"It's quite alright. I don't really think I remember you either. It was a long time ago and I was only here for a short time. Frankly I don't think I'll really recognize very many people. Everyone's changed so much since then."

Gregory cautiously analyzed the boy while he responded, still not quite sure what to make of the sudden transformation. The abrupt change to a smiling and cavalier tone was reinforced by the boy's friendly and bright appearance. The outfit reinforced Gregory's emerging belief that perhaps he'd been mistaken in his earlier opinion. Butters was dressed in a pastel blue button up shirt, though unlike Gregory and Pip, the top buttons were undone to reveal a white t-shirt underneath. Likewise the shirt was only half tucked in, one side hanging out loosely, and both sleeves were rolled up to the elbow. A dark blue tie hung loosely, the knot tied below the last undone button rather than flush against the neck, hanging as if the boy had stopped partway through removing it, though clearly the position was deliberate. An odd white face was on the tie, looking rather like a cartoonish cat face with a red bow on one ear. While Gregory was trying to identify the picture Pip cut in, noticing his stare.

"Like it? It took me forever to find a Hello-Kitty tie for boys." Then Pip tossed a friendly arm around Butters' shoulder while facing Gregory and pointed up to his cap, "After he got me the hat I had to get him something to wear from me. That way we can always be carrying around something from our best mate!"

Looking at them together, with matching grins and arms comradely tossed about each other's shoulders, the boy certainly seemed more like the Butters Pip had talked about. But something still ticked the back of Gregory's mind as off. Under his unresponsive scrutiny Butters wilted a little before extending a shaky hand in greeting and trying to fill in the awkward moment.

"S-s-since we don't remember each other, let's start over. I'm Butters. Pip an' I are best friends, but he probably told you that part. He told me some stuff about you too! You're stayin' at the Fosterage huh? I bet you love it there. The Madame's so n-nice an' sweet ain't she!"

Gregory accepted the proffered hand, shaking it warmly and actually cracking a smile at the friendly words and the cheery blue wristband that clung to the boy's small wrists. Then his eyes traveled up to Butters' face. The instant their eyes met Gregory was back to his original confusion. What he saw in them was a far cry from what he'd expect from a happy boy. They were a soft grey blue, not unlike the top of a frozen lake or a winter sky. What was far more important; however, was that while Butters might be smiling brightly and his voice might be cheerful and pleasant, those pale irises were flat and as devoid of actual warmth and cheer as the wintry frost they resembled. It wasn't that they were hostile, just hollow and if anything a touch sad. The instant their hands parted from the greeting, Gregory slid his own to his side uncomfortably. He tried to formulate a proper reply to the words and not to what he was reading in the boy's eyes.

"Yes she's just a lovely woman. I had so little time with her on my last visit. I'm looking forward to living with her and Pip again. It's quite-"

"Gregory, what are you doing wearing that here!" Pip cut through his commentary and pointed to Gregory's side in horror. Gregory looked down quickly but saw nothing unusual. The shirt he wore was still immaculately tucked into the pants and his own hand was resting just above his belt, laying comfortably. As always tucked against his side was the reassuring form of Elios. Nothing new or unusual at all. _Except that I see Elios. What's going on!_

Butters squeaked in a frightened voice, "I-i-is that a sword?"

_Great everyone sees Elios. Why is it visible?_ Gregory stared at the sword quite confused himself. He vaguely tried to answer the two boys while inside he was far more concerned by his own question.

"Oh yes um, it is. I uh, how did it get there?"

A small shot of pain jabbed his neck, not even serious enough to cause him to flinch. It was just enough of a warning to let Gregory know his angelic side felt his words were treading awfully close to a lie. _I guess I know how it got there. It's always there. But I have no clue why I can see it?! What's going on? Is this because of the war?_

Pip quickly moved to stand at Gregory's side, blocking anyone else in the hallway from being able to see the blade. He quickly ordered Gregory to put it away in a hushed voice.

"I don't know why you brought it, but you can't have something like that in school. Quick put it in your locker. We can sneak it out later or have Charles bring something to hide it in when he picks us up. Hurry! If a teacher see's you in school with it you'll be sent straight to the principal's office if not suspended."

Gregory hastily obeyed, shoving the blade in his locker and slamming the door shut. Pip and Butters instantly relaxed when the locker closed. Gregory on the other hand remained on edge watching his hip warily. Elios might have already invisibly returned to his side for all he knew, it had no concern for any obstacle or distance he might place between himself and it. When no visible blade appeared at his hip for over a minute he finally relaxed looking up sheepishly at the two astonished blondes.

"I'm very sorry Pip. I don't know what happened. I guess…well," he wrestled with an attempt to find a safe way to finish the sentence. Luck was with him as Pip waved away his unfinished explanation.

"It's ok chap. As long as no one saw it you're fine. You probably just put it on out of habit. I mean look how nervous and jittery you were this morning. If anything I'm more shocked that I didn't notice than that you put it on."

"You were scared about somethin'?" Butters chimed in with concern.

Unlike the cheerfulness earlier, the concern was genuine as Butters' eyes exuded understanding. Apparently fear was something the boy could sympathize with. Pip laughed weakly and answered for Gregory, his voice a bit shaky as he was clearly still a little in shock at the near disastrous ruination of Gregory's first day.

"Yeah, the poor bloke was convinced today was going to go terribly. I can kinda see why now. You should have seen him though, fussing over himself in the mirror making sure everything was just so. He was worse than you were back when we were d-" With that Pip stopped abruptly mid sentence, a flush crossing his face as he apparently finally found something he couldn't just blurt out inanely. Whatever it was Butters apparently caught the reference immediately, a crimson stain creeping up his face as well and a hint of panic showing through clearly.

Completely at a loss as to the interrupted comment and the sudden bevy of blushing blondes around him Gregory answered Pip's half finished comment in an attempt to draw the conversation back to something safe.

"I was just worried about everything going on today. New classes, new people, trouble at home…"

He almost winced at the last part, even though he had felt obligated to include it lest he get another, 'you're awfully close to lying' warning of pain from his body. Thankfully Butters pounced on his first words in his own eagerness to escape the awkward moment.

"So what classes are ya in," Butters asked clearly grateful for the topic change.

"Well I'm taking –" He was interrupted as Pip victoriously held up Gregory's class schedule flourishing it dangerously close to Gregory's face.

"I have it," the Brit said before walking over to Butters so the two could excitedly review the paper.

Butters looked up from the paper to toss Gregory an astonished glance before speaking in an awed voice.

"Wow Advanced Placement Physics, shucks that's the hardest class we have. That and Calculus Two. And you're in both. You must be really smart huh?"

"Well I did have a 4.0 grade point average at Yardale," even as he said it Gregory had to fend off the uncomfortable blush. _I really, really wish I had a few more honest details to throw in. That sounds lamer and lamer the more I use it. I doubt I'm going to make friends talking like that all the time._

"Yeah he's pretty sharp," Pip continued for him. Then he turned to give Gregory a frank and sympathetic look, "Unfortunately for you chap, Butters and I are taking chemistry not physics. The only ones crazy enough to want to be AP Physics are the die hard honors students like Wendy and Kyle. At least we'll have Gym together though."

Butters perked up visibly at something on the paper before happily adding onto Pip's observation with one of his own.

"Hey you an' I have the same electives. Pip's only gonna be in Visual Arts with us though." Butters followed this statement by turning to Pip and sticking his tongue out a moment before addressing his best friend, "I told you that you shoulda taken Religious Studies!"

Pip grimaced before elbowing his friend in the side lightly.

"Ugh. As if. I heard horror stories about that class last year. Astronomy is going to be a way more fun than arguing over Buddhism and Judaism."

Agreeing to disagree the two friends bickered playfully, poking each other and continuing their argument. Gregory stood back enjoying the amusing spectacle until the door they had entered through burst open signaling the arrival of the bus driven students. Their entrance was far louder and more rowdy than the trickle of students that had arrived by car or walked. Pip rolled his eyes at the sudden noisy intrusion and grabbed both Gregory and Butters by an elbow.

"Come on chaps. Now that they're all here, we won't even be able to hear ourselves think in the hallway. Off to homeroom!"

With that statement the perky Brit rushed ahead, dragging his poor victims along behind him to his next destination.

**

* * *

**If Gregory had bothered to look at the crowd behind him, he might have not been so slow to follow Pip. In fact if he'd seen the graceful form of Wendy Testaburger gliding through the crowd, aimed unerringly towards his row of lockers he might very well have ended up dragging the poor Pip behind him in his rush to get to homeroom, even if he had no idea where that homeroom might be.

Fortunately for Gregory, the raven haired girl was so focused on finding his locker that she completely failed to notice the trio hastily moving to escape the rush of students she entered with. Trailing behind the completely distracted Wendy followed her closest friend, Bebe Stevens, a girl with a heart as golden as her hair. Anyone who had not known the two girls from childhood would have been amazed at their closeness. A quick glance made it painfully obvious they should have been running in two completely different social circles. Bebe in a pair of slim AnF Jeans and an unnecessarily tight blouse that her chest swelled against strongly enough to strain the seams, was a study in contrasts when standing next to Wendy with her modest outfit of purple turtleneck and brown pants. Even their hair was in opposition, brilliantly blonde tight curls all bout bounced wildly with Bebe's every step, while Wendy's straight, midnight black hair flowed behind her like a slim shadow. The head cheerleader and the captain of the debate team, they were as unalike as day and night. Yet a lifetime of trials had tested their friendship and they'd proved they could forgive each other almost anything from breast inspired boy madness to the vicious power plays of the girl list council.

It was because of that long friendship that Wendy was able to mindlessly respond to Bebe's conversation even as her attention was completely focused on finding locker L466 that the attendance lady had directed her to. When she got there; however, she found it unoccupied. She immediately stopped her march and leaned against it, determined to wait till Gregory arrived. Meanwhile Bebe at last noticed they had stopped moving and stared at the lockers in confusion.

"Wendy, why did we stop here?"

"Hmmm? I'm sure they looked lovely on you," Wendy offered the response she was sure she was supposed to say next, not even bothering to look at her friend. Her eyes were hunting the mass of students for a different blonde altogether.

Bebe broke Wendy's search by snapping her fingers in front of her friend's face.

"Girlfriend, what's going on? You aren't even listening to me!"

"What? Yes I was."

Wendy finally turned to look at Bebe, though she continued to watch the stream of seniors, glancing aside every time a flash of yellow passed them.

"Prove it! What was I talking about while we walked here?"

Wendy considered the question carefully. Fortunately for her there were only two things Bebe ever really talked about, boys and shoes. Going with a mental flip of a coin Wendy opted for the shoes.

"You were talking about the cute shoes you saw at the mall."

Bebe waved aside the response and demanded more specifics.

"Lucky guess. What kind of shoes?"

Some might think her a bit shallow and slow but the girl had a sharp mind. No one could stay Wendy's friend by being a complete idiot. Bebe had simply learned years ago that looking as she did, no one expected anything better of her and it was far easier to just give people what they wanted. Still she was a girl of many talents and not just the ones written on the boy's bathroom wall. One of those talents was reading people, a skill made easier as most never bothered to put up their guard around such a harmless girl. Even Wendy who knew better was all but an open book to her after a lifetime of closeness. Thanks to that skill Bebe knew something was definitely on Wendy's mind and it so was not Bebe's amazing shoe discovery at the mall Saturday.

Wendy struggled to think back to their most recent trip to the mall and whichever shoes Bebe had doted on. Unfortunately between then and now she'd made a rather shocking re-acquaintance with Gregory and the details of their shopping trip had almost completely slipped from her mind. She vaguely recalled something from the weekend and guessed, hoping she wasn't thinking about one of the other countless shopping trips the two had gone on.

"Um the blue ones with white stripes?"

"Not even close! I was talking about the white ones with blue spots. The ones that are going on sale! They'd go so well with my navy skirt, don't you think Wendy?"

Suddenly Wendy's eyes darted to a blonde senior walking by.

That did it. Wendy had just phased out not once but twice while talking about shoes. Now Bebe's curiosity was well and truly piqued. Bebe grabbed Wendy by the arms and shook until the girl's gaze guiltily returned to her.

"Wendy?! Focus girl!"

"What? I'm sorry Bebe. Really."

"What's gotten into you?"

"It's nothing… I was just thinking about something."

There was definitely an 'I'm hiding that something I'm thinking about' quality to Wendy's response and again her eyes flashed at a passing boy before returning to Bebe. That was all the hint Bebe needed and she smiled forgivingly, the edge going out of her voice in understanding.

"Does this something have a name? Jack or Brian maybe?"

"Bebe, not everything is about boys."

Bebe rolled her eyes at the evasiveness of that response and clung to the topic, determined to get to the bottom of Wendy's obvious boy crush.

"I know that. Sometimes it's about clothes instead. But this time it's definitely a boy. Don't lie to me girlfriend. I know you are looking for someone, now spill it."

Knowing she was caught Wendy didn't bother lying. Lying to Bebe was virtually impossible to pull off. There were only two lies that always worked on Bebe and neither 'oh I love what you did with your hair,' or 'that boy is so totally into you,' was going to help her very much right now.

"I wasn't checking anyone out; I was just looking for someone. His name is Gregory. Remember the transfer student way back in third grade? The boy from Yardale that I hung out with for a month or two? The one that Stan got so jealous of? I saw him at the Fosterage this weekend and I checked in the office this morning. He's been registered with the attendance lists, so I thought I'd wait for him. This is supposed to be his new locker."

Bebe was floored by the response, her jaw dropping a moment in horror at the very un-Wendy like behavior of her friend. Quickly she grabbed Wendy and pushed her a few lockers away from L466.

"You checked the attendance list? And we were going to wait at his locker?! What are you thinking?! Huge mistake! Total stalker alert. You gotta give him at least a week before you go chasing after him or you'll just look desperate!"

Wendy had the decency to blush in embarrassment. Then she realized what Bebe was implying and quickly threw out a denial.

"I'm not chasing anyone. He was just a really interesting guy; there was always something different about him. I just want to talk to him and see if we can still be friends. And maybe get some questions answered."

Bebe was completely unconvinced by the answer, rolling her eyes as she responded.

"Sure, whatever you say," Bebe's voice turned teasing then as she grinned mischievously recalling something that had been preying on her own mind recently. She took on a disinterested tone before continuing. "Not that it will matter anyway. He's gay."

"What?! Bebe, how can you say that?! Do you even remember him? Did you guys even ever talk?"

Bebe dismissed Wendy's rebuttal with a bored wave of her hand while she tried to keep the smirk from showing on her lips. That would give away the game she was playing. Teasing Wendy was about the most enjoyable activity in the world. In Bebe's opinion the girl took all the wrong things far too seriously and never took any of the right things seriously enough. Besides if she goaded Wendy just right the girl might spill something juicy about this mysterious Gregory.

"Don't need to remember him. Don't need to talk to him. I already know everything I need right now."

"What do you know that I don't? What possible proof could you have?"

Bebe lifted her hand and marked off each of the next three carefully annunciated words with a raised finger.

"You. Like. Him."

"First off, I just told you I don't like him! Secondly, what would that have to do with it if I did?!"

"Just think about it for a sec. Who was your first love? Stanley Marsh. And the second guy you ever crushed on? Kyle Broflovski. Remember how you used to draw hearts around your and Stan's names? Or in fifth grade how you'd talk about the day you and Kyle would get married and raise a family of straight 'A' kosher kids? Look at the first two loves of your life now! They've always been attached at the hips but since seventh grade they've been attached at the lips as well. They spend so much time making out I've forgotten what their faces look like. All I ever see anymore are the backs of their heads. We both know they're a shoe in for class couple in the yearbook, no matter how weirded out some of the adults will be about it."

Wendy had the grace to look embarrassed at the reference to her ex. That particular surprise had floored her for almost a year when it'd first happened. Not that she was upset about it; she just couldn't believe she'd not seen it coming. She attempted to respond with as much dignity as she could to the accusation.

"Come on, that's not fair Bebe. Stan actually liked me when we dated! The whole time I was with him he wasn't even interested in Kyle like that. And after Stan of course I'd have a thing for Kyle; all Stan ever did was hang out with him. He was one of the only other guys I really knew well back then."

Bebe grinned in enjoyment as she spotted a cute scene over Wendy's shoulder that reminded her of her next point to bring up against the girl. She casually dropped the Stan and Kyle argument only to spring on the next damning mark in Wendy's little black book.

"I'm not done yet Wendy. What about sixth grade and your 'bad boy' phase. Remember when you fell hard for Craig Tucker," Bebe brought both hands together beside her face and adopted a ridiculous starry eyed expression while pouting her lips and imitating Wendy's voice. "For three months all I heard was, 'oh Bebe, he's not bad, just misunderstood. He only rebels because he needs someone to reach out to him.'"

Her search for Gregory completely forgotten Wendy reached over to push Bebe's hands down and shush her friend while trying hard to control the flush creeping across her cheeks. Bebe's hands slipped past Wendy's to turn the raven haired girl around to face the scene behind her. Now Wendy was forced to look at the two boys that Bebe had noticed moments before.

Further down the hall Craig was casually leaning against the lockers holding two backpacks and a coffee, while a frantic Tweek struggled with his combination. After a few gasps and twitches of unhappiness at his failure Tweek turned a mournful look to Craig. With a soft chuckle, Craig dropped both backpacks before slipping behind Tweek trapping the smaller boy's waist between his arms. Resting his chin on Tweek's shoulder he had a clear view of the offending locker dial. Then he let his hand land softly on top of the trembling hand of his boyfriend, twining their fingers. With his much steadier grip Craig guided Tweek in operating the locker combination which easily opened under their combined touch. Then Craig tossed a light peck on Tweek's cheek before stepping back and picking up the twitchy blonde's backpack and holding it out for him.

Bebe leaned over Wendy's shoulder and they both smiled at the scene. Then Bebe whispered teasingly in Wendy's ear.

"I heard Craig brings an extra shirt to school every day so he can change out of the first one when it gets covered in coffee stains from their morning gropefest."

Wendy giggled a little at the piece of news. The laugh caught the attention of the two boys, causing Tweek to shriek in panic and cling to Craig. For his part Craig just rolled his eyes, tossed an arm protectively about the boy, and whipped the two nosy girls off. Then he leaned his head down to whisper calming things into Tweek's ear.

Wendy quickly turned back to face Bebe feeling mortified at being caught watching the two boys. With a tired sigh she returned to their argument.

"Bebe, I can't see where this is going. No scratch that I can see where it's going and the point your making is just sad!"

Bebe didn't look remorseful for even a second at having been caught, continuing to shamelessly watch the two boys in their intimate moment. Then her ears perked at what Wendy had said. She pounced eagerly onto the topic that came to mind, abandoning her voyeuristic admiration of Craig and Tweek. Dramatically she adopted a mournful pose. She lay one hand across her forehead and leaned against the lockers before adopting a particularly forlorn tone.

"Sad? That brings me to the fourth boy on the list. The tragically, unrequited love for Kenny McCormick. Your broken blonde. Oh how you would go on and on and on," here she moved away from the locker grabbing Wendy's shoulders and melodramatically looking at Wendy with a heartbroken expression, "and on and on. Always talking about how sorry you felt about poor, poor Kenny. How he needed someone to be there for him when life was keeping him down," Bebe stopped a moment to stand straighter. She lifted one hand above her to grip an imaginary rope as she tilted her head sideways and mimed hanging form a noose, "Or life was just killing him off for that matter. You were so sure you could be the girl who helped free him from his endless cycle of poverty and death."

By all rights she should have been getting upset, but Wendy couldn't help but giggle at the display her friend put on even as she tried to counter the argument. She might be an excellent debater, but if one of her opponents had ever studied under Bebe, Wendy might never have won. It was almost impossible to formulate a logical argument against Bebe's good-natured over the top performance. Still she tried gamely around the laughing.

"We never even dated. He just patted me on the back and told me to save myself for someone who could love me back. Besides Kenny isn't gay. Kenny's not anything. He tells everyone that goes after him the same thing he told me. He hasn't ever shown the faintest hints of even thinking about dating anyone of either gender."

Bebe threw a hand on each hip before cocking her head sideways and adopting a ridiculously shocked expression.

"Puh-lease Wendy. Are you serious? I swear sometimes I wonder if you're really a girl," Bebe reached across and shamelessly poked Wendy's chest in a testing manner. Wendy recoiled covering her breasts with her arms and trying not to gasp while Bebe continued, "If I hadn't gone dress shopping with you myself, I would totally call you out as a boy in disguise. How can you not see Kenny is so totally in love with Butters?"

"Butters?! That's just insane. They don't even hang out anymore. They used to be kinda friends, like…back before freshman year. But ever since Pip and Butters well…you know… I don't think they've even sat at the same table. They barely even talk now and then only if Butters corners him first."

Bebe grinned madly before adopting a sickly sweet tone.

"Exactly my point. Kenny was sooooooo obviously crushing for him bad back when they were friends. And how could you have not noticed how he acted back during the very brief fiasco that was Brit boy and Hello-Kitty dating? Ever since then he just watches from afar, lost and forlorn, when all he wants is to rush up and embrace his one true love."

Bebe threw a hand over her heart and threw a charming smile at Wendy before moving in close and tossing a most serious, I-love-you-face at Wendy in imitation of a crushing Kenny. Beside them a pair of boys walking by stopped completely in their tracks ogling the gorgeous cheerleader who looked about to kiss the cute black haired girl. Wendy threw a scathing glare at the two boys, who had the decency to look embarrassed before quickly walking away. Even as they left though they kept peeking over their shoulder at the two and whispering. For her part Bebe ignored them completely, indifferent to anything but the enjoyable torment she was inflicting on her best friend. Wendy sighed, covering Bebe's face with her hand to block out the amusing sight and focus on rationally convincing her insane friend to give up.

"That makes no sense Bebe? When does not talking to someone mean you like them? Have you seen the two of them near each other at all? And you know Kenny's not making stupid faces like that."

Now it was Bebe's turn to sigh as she stepped away from Wendy's hand and rubbed her own forehead. She spoke slowly and carefully as if she was addressing Timmy and not the shoe in for class valedictorian.

"Wendy, for a girl on the honor roll, how can seriously be this naive? It's not just that he isn't talking to Butters. He does everything he can to avoid interacting with him at all. He always uses Christophe if he needs something from Butters like the notes he missed. And when they do talk, he won't even look the boy in the eye, in fact he tries his hardest to never even look in Butters direction. Take it from me; there are only two reasons you ever obsess that much over someone. You either really love them or you really hate them. And who besides Eric Cartman has ever, ever been able to hate Butters? There's no way on earth Kenny, the bleeding heart, McCormick has found the one mean bone in his body and is nursing a secret, deep, uncontrollable loathing for Leopold Stotch. Trust me girl, the only bone in his body concerned with Butters is the one in his pants."

Bebe let her face take on a lecherous grin when she finished just in case Wendy had somehow missed her implication.

While Wendy didn't seriously see the connection, she did admit Bebe put up a convincing argument. That Kenny part at least. Wendy was willing to concede that Bebe could read people better than she could, and if anyone outside of his tight circle of friends would have noticed something from the secretive Kenny it'd have been Bebe. Still to give in at this point would doom her for sure; Bebe would take the partial victory as proof her entire argument was right. Instead Wendy tried to return to the original argument, relying on her debate team training to throw a slew of serious sounding words at Bebe in hopes of overwhelming her.

"This is all conjecture. And completely spurious at that?! You have nothing definably solid to base this on. You're just seriously abusing the Socratic Method. It doesn't prove Gregory is gay!"

Bebe was unmoved by the response. She was not foolish enough to let Wendy drag her into debate team speak. This game was far to fun to let Wendy spoil it with seriousness.

"Wendy, if you like Gregory and I mean truly like-like him, I'm sorry hon, but he's gay. Face it; it's like you have a super power. You have the ultimate gaydar, you can only love gay boys."

Suddenly Wendy saw a familiar face in the distance and it was her turn to twirl Bebe around and point. Her finger directed Bebe's gaze towards the handsome, richly dressed boy with soft black dreads and a heart melting smile. A smile he was currently using on the girl, not boy, at his side. Her voice took on a relieved note as she seized the one saving grace in her list of questionable love interests.

"But what about Token? I dated him and he's totally about the ladies."

Bebe dismissed Token and his girlfriend with a wave of her hand before turning to face Wendy and adopting an impish smile.

"Yeah but you didn't like him."

Wendy looked at the floor uncomfortably rather than meet Bebe's gaze. Her denial was only half-hearted.

"Yes I did! We went out!"

Bebe delicately brought a hand under Wendy's chin forcing her to look up. A pale eyebrow arched upwards in disbelief, daring Wendy to try and say that again while meeting her eyes. When Wendy refused to repeat herself, Bebe refuted the argument even though they both knew Wendy's silence was all but an admission of the lie.

"Wendy, you saw him for a total of what two weeks? Two weeks that started the day you broke up with Stan for the first time in your life. He was a rebound," Bebe released Wendy's chin and bounced her fist gently off Wendy's forehead to accentuate the word rebound. "He wasn't even a good one. You dumped him as soon as Stan broke out of his 'Raven' phase and stopped caring that you were seeing someone else."

Rather than return to the awkward topic of Stan again, Wendy quickly offered another counter.

"Well, what about Tweek, Butters, and Pip? I've never chased after them and their gay."

"We're not proving you're in love with all the gay boys Wendy. We're proving that all the boys you're in love with are gay! It's just like what you taught me in geometry. Just because all squares are rectangles, doesn't mean all rectangles have to be squares."

At that point Wendy officially knew she was beat. Bebe was breaking out math and logic for her ridiculous argument. Worse she was actually using the metaphor properly. The universe was officially against her. She might not completely believe Bebe, but her friend really did have a good point. She was royally screwed in the falling in love department. With an almost heart broken sniffle, Wendy panicked and pressed the guilt trip button, looking down at the ground again.

Instantly her vision was filled with gigantic boobs as Bebe broke off her teasing completely and rushed in to hug her distraught friend. Her voice was instantly contrite at the thought that Wendy had taken her game too hard.

"I'm sorry Wendy. I was just teasing you."

Wendy folded into the hug, trying to speak around the curly blonde hair that was suddenly everywhere.

"I know you were. It's just...God Bebe, I really am screwed up when it comes to boys. Maybe I am cursed."

Bebe patted Wendy's back soothingly and more boys walked by leering at them. This time Bebe was the one to glare them into a hasty retreat. Bebe suspected Wendy didn't really believe she was cursed, but she offered soothing platitudes anyway. She had gone a little far in the teasing this time after all.

"It's not your fault Wendy. Honestly it's just bad luck! And not just for you. Come on, almost half of the attractive or worthwhile guys in our grade are gay. You toss a quarter in this hallway and it's more likely to hit a homo than land on the floor. How could you not keep falling for gay boys?"

Wendy laughed at that, finally pulling out of the comforting embrace to smile at Bebe meekly.

"You have a point. We are all kinda royally fucked. Or not fucked actually."

Bebe grinned back before adopting a pouting face and fake slapping Wendy. She decided it was the best time to drastically alter the conversation and get Wendy away from Gregory's locker while she was still off balance. So she led her friend towards their own lockers while pursuing a far more important topic, one that was of the utmost import for all senior girls.

"Ugh, don't remind me Wendy. That's what got me thinking about your bad luck to start with. All I can do is worry about how much it sucks for all of us girls. Especially right now!"

As they stopped at their lockers and began opening them, Wendy turned a confused look to Bebe wanting an explanation for her last comment.

"Excuse me? What's so special about right now?"

Bebe slipped her scarf into her locker before reaching in and pulling out a copy of the school calendar from her locker to shove in Wendy's face.

"Earth to Wendy, look at the date! It's September of our senior year. We have to start thinking about finding escorts to senior prom and most of the guys worth going with in our class are fruitier than the orange smoothies they sell at the mall."

Wendy pushed the calendar back at Bebe with a roll of her eyes before putting her own gloves and scarf away and getting out her class books. All the while she tossed Bebe a disbelieving stare.

"But prom is seven months away!"

Having finished putting her much smaller selection of class books in her backpack, Bebe closed her locker with a distracted bump of her hip while turning the full force of her urgency on Wendy.

"Exactly, it's only seven months! I've already started selecting the shoes to go with the dress that I picked over the summer. But I still don't have any idea whose going to be my date! Mercedes doesn't, Red doesn't, Lexus doesn't. Porche is the only one with a man. It's so unfair!" Bebe stopped a moment to stamp her foot dramatically before continuing. "She managed to get the only guy in our class with money, looks, and a preference for girls. How can you not be worried about this? Porche is totally set and even she's freaking out over it. If any other girl even looks at Token over the next few months, she'll probably tear their eyes out with her cheap press-on nails"

Wendy closed her locker, picking up her significantly heavier backpack before looping an arm through Bebe's and cautiously offering what she knew would be an unpleasant solution.

"You could just try a junior."

Bebe looked slightly queasy at the suggestion, turning to walk towards their homeroom before grudgingly agreeing.

"I might have too. But you can bet the junior girls know how screwed we are. They're probably already snagging the best ones from their class early. I will not go to my senior prom with a junior who wasn't even good enough for the junior girls! Do you hear me Wendy?! No one is going to vote me Prom Queen if I show up with a loser for an escort!"

Bebe's complaint ended in a pained wail as they stopped before their homeroom door. Wendy grabbed both of Bebe's shoulders and pulled her into a hug, smoothly taking her turn to be the comforting one.

"Look Bebe, you'll find someone. You're the prettiest girl in our class there's no way you won't have a date. If worst comes to worst we'll ship in some hotty from another school just for you."

Bebe glowed under the compliment before tossing a friendly arm about her best friend's shoulder.

"And we'll find one for you to Wendy. Or maybe things will work out with this Gregory boy. I was only teasing anyway. I bet this time you'll have found one that's actually straight."

Just like that they were through yet another crazy adventure of the mismatched pairing that was Bebe and Wendy. Seamlessly back together again and past one of the countless dramas that made up high school friendships. Of course as it was South Park the happy ending was only temporary. No sooner had they walked into class when something caught Bebe's attention and she innocently commented on the observation to her finally calmed down friend.

"Oh Wendy check out the cute new blonde hanging out with Butters and Pip. Which one of them do you think he's dating?"


	13. Ch 11: One Wild Ride

**A/N:** Wow...long delay there. I'm so very sorry for the ridiculous time between updates, especially to anyone who was enjoying tihs story, but what can I say? Final semester, lab work, job fairs. And getting published! But not anything "exciting" like a story or a novel, just some ultrasonic diabetes research I helped my professor perform. Anywho, I do apologize for this...wow...almost month long delay between postings! I can't promise to go back to the every five days system, not with interviews, papers, and finals only a little over a month away, but I can promise to not let it get this bad again!

Still the last thing you want to read after all this time is me yapping on and on about why I wasn't updating, so...thank you for the reviews, the consitent checking of the story, and all the support yo've given me in the form of reading my story! Enjoy the new chapter!

Much love to you all!

Sky

* * *

"Don't let people drive you crazy when you know it's in walking distance." ~Unknown

**Chapter 11 – One Wild Ride**

The hideous orange-yellow vehicle was zooming towards the bus-stop with remarkable speed as Damien rushed towards the other students. It was only as he neared it that he actually began to doubt himself, slowing his run to a jog. Surely if this was the right bus it wouldn't be going so fast. Not if it intended to stop safely in a few…the thought was interrupted by the loud screeching of brakes. The bus defied physics and somehow went from dangerously fast to dead stop in a remarkably short amount of time and space. Its wheels left a layer of burned rubber on the road as a testament to the dramatic stop. When the door slammed open with a horrendous bang, Damien was surprised to see the students slowly strolling on with no thought to their own safety. Technically a little bus crash couldn't kill him and he was still loathing the idea of boarding a vehicle that was being driven so insanely. When it came his own turn, Damien climbed the stairs cautiously with his head down after the first look up, not willing to maintain the twitchy gaze of the clearly unstable driver.

In front of him stretched a sea of faces, all staring blankly forward, not at him, but through him. As he walked down the aisle, it was disconcerting to be the focus of so much non-attention. It made his hunt for an empty seat more difficult, trying to avoid meeting any one's creepy gaze as he searched. A few seats only had one student in them, but he skipped them, not wanting to navigate the awkwardness of introductions and asking to sit with a line behind him. It wasn't until he neared the very back that he finally found empty seats, the number of kids thinning out to nothing in the very back two rows. It was also back there that the people finally stopped looking through him and started looking at him, in a considering if aloof manner.

Just in front of that empty section was the first student who did more than just stare. The boy actually flipped him off, almost absently, before letting the hand slipped back into his lap. Damien performed a double take, his eyes having first slid over kid like all the others, before his mind registered the obscene gesture and his gaze returned to the boy. Under a second inspection he doubted he had even seen the gesture, for the boy was no longer paying him any mind at all, staring forward quite indifferent to the kid he'd just shown the middle finger. Damien slipped into the seat behind the kid, continuing to take his measure. A strange blue hat covered most of his head and the sides of his face were shielded by odd dangling ear covers. Still a few stray black bangs peaked out around the covers or hung low enough to be visible at the crack where the hat met the collar of a matching dark blue jacket.

Damien was examining that hat now, preparing to tap the kid on the head, and not gently, to get his attention and ask just why the boy had flipped him off, when the last kids boarded the bus. To Damien's dismay the two boys Damien had suffered Lee and Jen's humiliating parting in front of walked straight to the back, the one in orange grinning almost sadistically at Damien before the two claimed the last seat, directly behind Damien. Damien faced forward stiffly. He was no longer interested in talking to the kid that had gestured to him, but his gaze continued to burn a hole through the back of the kid's head to help resist the urge to turn around and knock the smiles off the faces of the two behind him.

"His name's Craig and you can stop checking him out, he's taken," a mirthful voice teasingly sounded remarkably close to his ear. Damien barely managed not to jump in response; the boy behind him must have been leaning over the back of his seat to have gotten so close. Damien stiffened his shoulders and slumped in his seat until his head was low enough to be farther from that voice, and allow the seat in front of him to completely block out the view of 'Craig.'

A chuckle sounded somewhere above his head, followed by a lower rougher one a little off to the side. The back of Damien's seat groaned a moment as a weight above him shifted and the scent of smoke drifted closer. Again the speaker's voice was shockingly nearby, the boy having inched even further over the seat to get close enough for his next words to carry in spite of the low throaty whisper he spoke them in.

"What's wrong, _champ_? You sure the silent treatment is your best first impression? I bet Daddy wouldn't be too proud of you, if he saw you acting like this."

Though the speaker didn't know it, his remarkably poor choice of words struck home, though not in the way he imagined. The image that brought an angry glint to Damien's eyes was not Lee in a tweed jacket waving to him, but a much larger, fatter, and redder father, who was never, ever proud of anything Damien did.

_Fuck this! I'll make an 'impression' on you, asshole. _Damien's hand moved in a flash as he acted on that thought, reaching up to grab the dangling kid by his very bright orange jacket and tug downward. With half of the kid's body already hanging over the seat, even a weak person could have pulled him the rest of the way. And Damien was definitely not 'weak.' The kid flipped over the seat in an orange and blue blur, landing on the poorly cushioned seat with a loud thud. A pained 'oof,' sounded as the speaker's breath was knocked out of him by the impact. Blue eyes crossed and uncrossed, clearly dazed at the sudden change in position and orientation.

As he recovered his bearings, the kid started to struggle to sit up, but Damien held him down, pinning him to the seat easily with an iron grip on the boy's neck. The boy finally got his eyes to focus, managing to look up through messy blonde bangs into an upside down pair of glowering red eyes. Then the boy turned to look at Damien's free hand, which was balling into a fist and pulling back to get extra space for the swing he was about to take. Just before Damien could relieve his family frustrations with a little 'physical therapy,' his descending fist was arrested mid flight, caught in an iron grip.

With a very shaky chuckle the blonde's look of unease melted into an impish grin as he pointed above Damien, to his companion who was now leaning lazily over the seat. With a bored expression on his face the second boy met Damien's stare with a flat emerald gaze, while resting his head on the arm that supported his weight on the seat. His other arm stretched out towards Damien, meeting Damien's fist above and behind Damien's head. Damien tried to push his fist forward but the second boy's arm didn't budge and Damien couldn't twist his fist free of that gloved hand's embrace.

The second boy didn't bother speaking, though his bored expression was more than enough to irritate Damien. Trying to relieve the impasse and still pissed at the one he'd already taken down, Damien squeezed the neck of the blonde he had pinned to the seat. The boy kept laughing though it came out as more of a cough now. In response his scary green-eyed friend clenched, tightening his grip on Damien's fist and bending Damien's hand backward against his wrist. Damien gritted his teeth and glared, refusing to give up the point, motivated mostly by pride to ignore the pain. The boy must have seen the stubbornness in Damien's face and abruptly changed tactics. His face broke into a smirk as he released Damien's fist. Unfortunately, by that point Damien had been putting all his weight behind his arm trying to force it forward in the impasse. No longer being met with resistance, Damien also found his weight no longer being supported and he started to fall. The hand pinning the orange kid down released as he tried in vain to arrest his descent. Failing miserably, Damien ended up landing face first on to the orange kid, or more specifically, onto the orange kid's crotch. There was a pained groan from somewhere down near his own crotch as the kid moaned at the damage to the delicate area.

A harsh grating laugh sounded from somewhere above him, joined by another more nasal one. Damien looked up as he slowly lifted off the kid he'd crushed, seeing that the scary green-eyed boy's head was joined by the Craig kid, who was now leaning over the back of his seat to laugh at the two of them.

"Jesus, McCormick, getting a little fresh with the new kid?" Craig teased.

The blonde glared up from his position sprawled painfully on his back across Damien's seat, head still awfully close to Damien's lap. He slowly sat up, wincing and letting one hand land gingerly on his crotch. He maintained his glare at both of his friends and the equally glowering Damien for a good second or two. His face reddened and contorted and for a moment Damien thought he was going to explode on them all, but instead the McCormick kid closed his eyes and slumped back against the seat as he began laughing harder than both of the other boys had. Damien inched back in his seat, now thoroughly confused as he gaped at all of them a bit fish faced, his own irritation erased by the spectacle.

The kid in orange was the first to stop laughing, probably because he was still in some pain judging by the way he was sitting. He turned and extended a hand to Damien. Both of Damien's fists lifted in a defensive position, but the hand reaching towards him was open, palm flat in greeting. Damien shook hands cautiously, still eying all three of the boys as if they were insane.

"Heh…I'm…Kenny," the one he'd been fighting with managed to say around gasps for breath and an open grin.

Damien managed to keep his eyebrows from arching over his head as he pieced together who he'd just about pummeled to death. _Well not really to death if it's THE Kenny._ Damien did not remember much of the guy from his last meeting, back then Kenny was just another kid to him. It wasn't even that memorable a meeting, just a little platypus duck transformation and some explosions, basic chaos manipulation. Since then though, that name had become quite renowned. Everyone in both Heaven and Hell knew of the immortal-mortal now. The boy who'd personally stopped the last two serious invasions attempted by Hell.

Damien's hand shake became much friendlier and a genuine smile slipped across his face once he'd made the connection. Kenny might have messed up Hell's plans, but technically all he'd done was screw with Damien's dad, the Demons, and most importantly Satan's boyfriends. The Fallen hadn't been involved in any of that, mostly because Satan was letting dumb-ass mortals run the show. Those few that Damien actually respected in Hell held no grudge against the un-killable kid. And anyone who could fuck up Sadam's day as well as the other dicks, pun most definitely intended, that his dad dated was cool in Damien's book.

In the span of seconds for Damien to make the connection and relax, Kenny's attention had already moved back to mock glowering at his friends.

"That one, you already know is Craig," Kenny pointed to the kid who'd whipped Damien off initially. In a flash the blonde diverted his attention to the other boy, his defender, who was still chuckling in a harsh, guttural manner that spoke volumes about how little he probably laughed. "The scary one's 'Tophe. You can call him 'Tophy, or 'Tophers…" Kenny trailed off as he considered even more outlandish names. While still laughing, the green eyed kid Kenny was referring to dropped a fist lazily, but still with force, onto the top of Kenny's head. With a groan Kenny buckled under the impact before straightening up and rubbing the back of his neck as he corrected himeslf, "Errr…just call him the Mole. Only a few of us get to take 'liberties,' with his name."

"Kenny, Craig, the Mole," Damien sounded out the names once to commit them to memory. Kenny seemed surprised at Damien's casual acceptance of the Mole's unusual nick-name. In truth, having been raised by a legion of biblical of individuals with biblical names such as Ezekiel, Azazel, and Penemue, Craig and Kenny were just as unusual as Mole was to Damien.

"How 'bout you kid?" Kenny looked at Damien curiously.

Damien stared at him, confused a moment. It had been a very long time since he'd been in a situation where people hadn't known who _he_ was.

"Your name?" Kenny clarified, stretching the two words out slowly while motioning with one hand. As the awkward silence continued a look of horror dawned across Kenny's face and he blurted out, "Oh god it's not actually Champ is it? If it is, I'm so sorry for teasing you about it dude!"

The look of indignant outrage on Damien's face was enough to set Kenny and Craig laughing again. Damien puffed himself up and almost unthinkingly blurted out his full name, including titles, 'dark prince,' 'son of the damned one,' and more, just to wipe the grins off their faces. Before he could ruin everything in a moment of wounded pride, someone else answered first.

The Mole, who'd calmed down from his moment of humor, was now looking at Damien with an intently focused expression, casually spoke, "'is name is Damien."

Damien looked at the green-eyed 'Mole' boy with new wariness and a hint of unease. Craig and Kenny were staring at the Mole as well, confusion clear on their faces. There was no innocent curiosity in Damien's eyes though, just calculation that was met by an equally flat and studying green gaze.

In Damien's head the haunting warnings Penemue had offered on the dangers of South Park and being caught repeated themselves as he examined the Mole for signs of heavenly or demonic possession. One hand slipped behind his back to conceal it as he called up the faintest flickers of power. Not enough to actually cause a fire, not even enough chaos for a small alteration, such as he had done with his backpack's color. He was just calling up the potential for change, like a thumb hovering over a lighter. He waited for a sign on the Mole's part of an attack, determined to get his own strike in first if it came to it. If this Mole was an agent, he'd find himself holding a flaming fist the next time he tried to stop one of Damien's punches.

"How did you know that," Damien kept his voice deliberately light, though he doubted he was fooling the other boy.

"Your pack," the Mole responded and pointed to Damien's backpack where the damnable, 'Damien Star' was still spelled out cheerily on the label Jen had attached.

Kenny and Craig started laughing anew at the stupid label, while Damien relaxed. He let the potential slip away as he pulled his hand from behind his back. The Mole arched an eyebrow at the motion. Damien wondered if the boy had realized the implied threat of Damien hiding his hand, before suddenly realizing that one of the Mole's hands was also hidden behind the seat. Damien's unease returned but rather than let it show to the scarily observant Mole, Damien lowered his gaze to the offending label as he tried to pick at it again.

A flash of silver glinted near his eyes as a knife blade slipped into his vision. Damien kept an iron grip on his nerves, proud that he'd managed not to jump at the sudden appearance of a knife near his face. With a flip Christophe tossed the blade in the air, catching the sharp edge in his hand with no fear of being cut, before extending the handle to Damien. Though the display was undoubtedly a deliberate warning, Damien still accepted the blade gratefully. The knife easily sliced through the threads and Damien flicked the offending label away with satisfaction. _Very sharp,_ Damien observed of both the knife and its owner, as he returned the blade to the Mole.

"Thanks, Jen put the damn thing on this morning. I didn't have a chance to remove it," Damien offered as explanation.

"Muzers. Zey are beetches," the Mole responded in an almost philosophical tone of agreement.

"Yeah," Damien agreed uncomfortably, before awkwardly turning to talk to the other two boys. He wasn't keen on pursuing that topic, having no desire to think about Jen, or worse his actual mother, the identity of whom was a mystery to everyone but Satan. Not even his keeper had ever figured that one out, or if he had, he'd never shared it with Damien. "So," he began before realizing he had no clue how to make small talk.

"So," Kenny mockingly echoed him.

"Uh, what grade are you guys in?"

"Seniors," Kenny said smugly, "you?"

"I'm a senior too."

"So your parent's moved you for your last year? New school, new people, that's lame." Craig observed sympathetically.

"Yeah. It's…lame," Damien felt incredibly awkward trying to figure out what to say and how to say it. He was pretty sure the manner of speech he'd grown up with wasn't quite the same as modern teen speak and was trying to keep his responses from giving that away. "So have you guys all been here the whole time?"

"Well Craig an' me," Kenny stopped for a second to turn and sit in the seat backwards so he and Craig were both facing Damien. He tossed a friendly arm around Craig's neck before continuing, "Have been victim's of the South Park school system from Pre-K on. 'Tophe, as you can probably tell from his ridiculous accent has spent less time suffering here. He's been around since he was eight, but he's only joined our school around seventh grade or so."

Kenny said the last bit while simultaneously dodging a few lazy swipes the Mole made at him. Damien wasn't sure if the half-hearted attack was because of the name choice or the accent comment. Still he nodded understandingly as one mystery cleared up. After getting their name's, he'd been able to connect the other two boys to the photograph he'd memorized, but nowhere in that image, or his other recollections, could he recall a dangerous, green-eyed boy with a French accent, or the name the Mole.

"So that's why I don't know him," Damien said out loud before wincing at the casual blunder.

"Don't know him? So…you know us?" Kenny pointed to himself and Craig before sitting up and slipping back into swatting range of the Mole to get a closer look at Damien. For his part the Mole abandoned the attack mid swing, dropping his friendly violence for cautious appraisal of Damien.

"Well…I've been here before. My…dad…brought me along for some, uh…business. I wasn't here long, only a week or so. He…finished his work early and we had to leave." Damien stumbled his way through what he hoped was a believable translation of the events that would mesh with their altered memories.

"You sure you met us?" Kenny said as he turned to look at Craig.

Craig shook his head at Kenny's querying glance and shrugged his shoulders.

"Yeah, I was in your class while I was here. With…uh…Mr. Garrison."

"Garrison," Kenny corrected almost automatically.

"Huh?" Damien wasn't sure what was different with what he'd said and Kenny's correction.

"It's just Garrison now. After about the seventh sex change, the whole town gave up on the mister and miss thing. Then we all lost count. With one look at Garrison you could tell that the doctor didn't even know for sure which way the operation was going on the last attempt." Kenny offered in bored explanation, as if people forgot someone's gender all the time.

"Uh…wow. Well…Garrison then. I was in Garrison's class with you all. We all hung out a bit, I remember going to some crazy party at the end of the week with a really fat kid. Eric-"

"Cartman," Craig finished for Damien with a disgusted voice.

"Yeah him," Damien finished, "It was a pretty memorable party. Ferris Wheel and everything."

"Hmph, he had to have been there," Craig offered to the still doubting Kenny. "There was a definitely a Ferris Wheel at Eric's eighth birthday. Pretty crazy fireworks too. At least I think there were fireworks. That parts fuzzy; it was a long time ago. There was something fancy and explosive."

Damien winced at that comment. Fortunately Kenny focused on the first half of what Craig had said rather than bring up more of Damien's embarrassing display at Phillip's expense.

"I don't remember a Ferris Wheel," Kenny replied.

"Dude you were dead," Craig said with a casual shrug. As Kenny groaned with distaste and glared at Craig, Craig responded flippantly, "Don't get all pissy at me bringing up the dead thing. You died a lot back then; you can't keep getting upset when it comes up. It's like telling a story without mentioning Shelly's braces, Cartman's fatness, or Tweek's twitch," Craig's lips curled into a smile and his eyes unfocused for a second before returning to Kenny, "Besides you can't complain anymore. Do you even remember the last time you died?"

"Almost three years ago. November third, freshman year, during the Second Canadian War," Kenny replied in a flat voice, as if he was answering a question in a classroom. Catching his own tone, he frowned a second, before smiling sheepishly at Craig, "Fine. I guess I can't complain really. Not with my body guard always on the lookout, keeping me alive." Kenny's smile became more genuine as he craned his neck to look up at the Mole.

The Mole sighed as he met Kenny's glance with a tired expression.

"You don't make it easy, mon ami. You 'ave shitty luck and always fuck my plans up," the Mole observed with an angry voice though he smiled as he spoke, "I was sure you'd be safe waiting out ze Canadian war in Switzerland. No one ever fights with those pussies." Now the humor vanished from his face as the Mole glared out the window in what Damien assumed was the direction of Switzerland. "Damn abominable snowmen."

Kenny shrugged as he patted the Mole's elbow with a smile. "No harm done. Well no lasting harm anyway. You still have an almost perfect record," seeing as his words weren't having much of an affect to soothe the ruffled boy's angry expression, Kenny continued, "And you did wipe most of them out afterwards."

The Mole greeted that last comment with a dismissive grunt, but his lips twitched in a smile at some undoubtedly violent memory of turning the Swiss abominable snowman into an endangered species. With that eerie angry smile playing on his face he continued to look out the window.

Damien watched the entire interplay with a blank look, before Craig took pity on him and explained the details.

"Kenny saved the Mole's life back when we were little. I guess, technically, he saved the whole planet, since Hell was invading. The Mole kind of figures he owes him some huge debt. So he made it his job to keep Kenny from dying so much. The rest of us thought it was impossible, but he actually manages."

"And the rest of you?" Damien responded, curious as to how the rest of the world felt about being saved from the 'evil reign of Satan.'

Craig looked at him curiously, misinterpreting the question, "Rest of us what? Try to keep Kenny alive? No way, dude. First it's dangerous. Second, it's almost impossible. You should see some of the way's he's died. A fucking space station dropped on him once. If the universe is so hell-bent on getting you that it's willing to fling chunks of space station at you, I'm not going to get in the way. Especially when he comes back and I don't," Craig responded honestly. Kenny shrugged in casual agreement with the sentiment and disregard for the value of his own life. Only the Mole glared angrily a moment, though Damien was beginning to wonder if that was just an uncontrollably constant expression on the Mole's face, like a nervous tick was to some people.

"But he saved you all. Er….us all," Damien corrected himself, as he tried to puzzle out the strange logic. Personally he had never actually been in a position of owing anyone for his life, but he was pretty sure if he did he'd feel some sort of obligation to repay it.

Craig looked at him oddly before responding, "Dude, it's just part of living here. Everyone in our class has either saved or nearly destroyed the world at least once. I stopped the invasion of the giant Guinea Pig monsters and no one ever thanked me. I didn't even get my birthday money back."

Damien wasn't quite sure how to respond to that one. Before he could figure out a way to agree or counter the argument, the Mole bolted upright in alarm. His eyes were locked on something he saw out the window. He thrust a hand into the middle of their conversation to get everyone's attention.

"Shit, we're almost to ze school. Get ready."

Before Damien could ask what they were getting ready for, Craig and the Mole dropped from view into their seats. Beside him Kenny grinned crazily as he slumped down into their seat. The boy planted his knees against the back of Craig's seat in front of them and gripped his and Damien's seat tightly. Damien was slowly adopting the same position, still confused, when the harsh screech of another inch of rubber being burned into the asphalt signaled the school bus's arrival at the front of the school.

Damien's delayed and confused attempts at 'getting ready' were insufficient to stall his forward momentum, not when the bus driver was in the process of disproving the laws of physics concerning instantaneous deceleration of a large mass at high velocity. While everyone around him may have stopped moving at 65 mph, Damien's face continued cruising along at a healthy click until it bumped into the back of Craig's seat. For a second his vision was filled with nothing but a blurry swirl of orange and blonde. When he closed his eyes and reopened them the image settled into a bunch of spinning Kenny faces all still wearing that ridiculous grin. He helped Damien up with a gloved hand and slowly Damien felt the spinning sensation fade away. When he stood up he took stock of his surroundings, noting both the Mole and Kenny waiting on him, apparently unharmed.

A quick glance towards the front showed the aisle littered with students, some draped over the seats in front of them. One was trying to sit up from her new position laid out on the dashboard at the front of the bus. The carnage made him feel a little bit better about his own injuries till he realized Craig was not with them.

"Did Craig make it?" Damien wondered aloud.

"Craig? He's fine. He just had to hurry off the bus. If he takes more than thirty seconds, Tweek assumes he was injured in the stop and calls 911. When they get here they see it's just the usual school bus thing. Then they get pissed off. They yell at Tweek. Craig tries to beat the paramedics up. A fight starts. I almost die when someone throws a defibrillator. 'Tophe gets involved…and it all just gets ugly." As ridiculous as the story sounded Kenny said it so flatly and with such detail that he had to be speaking from experience. He reinforced that when he finished with a flippant smile, "Trust me, it's happened a few times. So Craig has thirty seconds. It's just not worth the hassle for him to take his time."

"Tweek? 911?" The first was vaguely familiar to Damien, clearly it was another student's name, he was pretty sure someone had brought it up on the bus ride. As for the random sequence of numbers, Damien had no clue what they were supposed to mean.

"Dude," Kenny's voice became concerned as he leaned in closer, staring into Damien's eyes with a pensive frown. "Did you hit your head a little too hard dude? I mean I get you not remembering Tweek; I'm amazed you remember me and Craig. But everyone knows 911."

"Oh, uh…yeah, 9-1-1" Damien rubbed his head and repeated the words slowly with fake confidence as he feigned a headache. "Sorry dude. Guess I wasn't ready for all that. The whole Tweek part must have thrown me."

The Mole laughed, "More like ze bus threw you, mon ami."

"Whatever, 'Tophe. Our Damien took it like a…champ" Kenny added the last part with a smirk and a playful punch to Damien's shoulder, "You'll fit in just fine with the rest of us."

With that announcement Kenny pivoted and strode off the bus with a cocky smile as he hopped over injured students. Damien stared after the energetic and crazy blonde a bit dazed. _Did I just make friends? Is that all it took?_ He turned to analyze the other part of his new 'us,' the Mole, who seemed to be the emotional opposite to Kenny's exuberant friendliness. The Mole arched an eyebrow at Damien's quizzical stare before motioning for Damien to precede him. Not recognizing the gesture, Damien did not immediately respond.

"I don't like people walking behind me," the Mole explained matter-of-factly as he repeated the gesture. Damien agreed with the sentiment but didn't feel like fighting the Mole over who should go first. Instead Damien shrugged and entered the aisle. He kept one suspicious eye on the Mole behind him, as he sidestepped around the groaning bodies of those students that hadn't managed to brace for impact and were littering the aisle. Keeping his attention both in front and behind, he forgot to look down and stumbled over a body, barely catching himself from a fall, by turning forward to brace his hands against the seats. When he recovered his balance he saw the Mole rising from a kneeling position back at their seats, slipping something into his pocket. Damien tried to identify what was in the Mole's hands, but they were fast, very fast. As was the Mole, who caught up to Damien quickly while he was busy trying to identify the Mole's suspicious activity.

Once the Mole was beside Damien, he noted the student Damien had tripped over with a smirk. "A freshman," the Mole said in explanation, "'e should have kept an eye out. Maybe 'e will learn next time."

With no more thought to the injured kid, the Mole stepped over the body with an indifference to the boy's suffering that reminded Damien an awful lot of the denizens back home. Damien turned his back on the Mole uneasily as he sped his way off the bus rather than leave his back exposed to long to the grim, strange French boy.

Outside Kenny was leaning against the bus, casually waving at passing students. Once Damien and the Mole exited the bus, Kenny pushed off to face them.

"What took you guys? Craig has already left. Tweek doesn't like to be near this thing. Not that I blame him. I'm probably the only person who shouldn't be scared of this bus and it still creeps me out." Kenny said with an overly dramatic shiver.

"Tweek? You still haven't told me who that is," Damien was loathe to remind them of his earlier confusion, but he was more worried they'd remember first and think it odd if he was no longer curious.

"Hmmm? Oh right I forgot to tell you who he is," Kenny said with a smack to his forehead. He stopped a second giving Damien a very serious look and dropped some of his laid back attitude as he adopted a cautious tone. "He's Craig's…boyfriend," Kenny delayed adding the last word as if unsure of Damien's reaction.

"And that's why he's so easily scared?" Damien asked in confusion, certain Kenny was waiting for something, but not sure what it was.

"Nah, Tweek's _always_ like that. He was like that long before Craig and him started _dating_." Kenny said the last part with a lot of emphasis again. After another pause where he watched Damien closely, Kenny blurted out, "You seriously don't care?"

"That he freaks out because of that bus? I don't think that's an unusual reaction. I'm kind of surprised no one died." Damien trailed off uncomfortably. Now he was sure Kenny was waiting for something but he had no idea what the boy had said that was supposed to be so shocking. He re-examined the conversation sure he was being tested and worried that he had missed something important.

"Dude," Kenny said happily. Apparently Damien had passed whatever test it was, because Kenny grinned hugely and stepped between Damien and the Mole before turning and tossing his arm around their shoulders. With gentle pressure he led them away from the death-trap of a school bus. The Mole muttered angrily as he brushed at Kenny's arm, but this just made Kenny smile more as he gripped the French boy's shoulder even tighter. Kenny stuck his tongue out at the Mole before turning to Damien with a friendly smirk. "You really are going to fit in with us Damien."

"You said that already," Damien added, putting on a bored tone like the Mole used. He was starting to get the hang of how these guys interacted, it seemed like fun for them so it had to be worth a try, "Are you sure you didn't hit _your _head?"

On the other side of Kenny, the Mole snorted humorously, "'e's always like zis. A little brain damage might actually clear zings up. We could always try it…" the Mole stopped moving and feigned a lunge towards Kenny. The dirty blonde bolted ahead of the two of them, abandoning his comradely grip on their shoulders as he moved out of range. Once safely away he turned to smile triumphantly at the Mole.

"Getting slow, 'Tophe. You missed." The blonde said with a cocky smile.

"I got you to let go of my shoulder," the Mole said with a shrug, before dropping both hands in his pockets and strolling past the now fuming blonde.

"That's a dirty trick 'Tophe. Friends are supposed to let friends show affection. And they're not supposed to use threats of violence!" The blonde mock yelled at the French boy's back.

"Zank god you are my employer and not my friend. Non?" the Mole replied without turning to face them as he strolled away.

"Yeah right, you adore me. It's not like I could afford your fees. I can't believe anyone pays those rates for a kid. My grandmas probably a better body guard," the blonde shot back as soon as he was sure the Mole was far enough away.

"As if you could afford someone else?" the mercenary shot back.

Damien must have been missing some information, because he didn't think that last comment was particularly effective, yet from the way Kenny groaned it was obvious that the Mole's parting shot had struck effectively. Clearly Kenny conceded the argument, because he abruptly executed a rapid topic change and turned his mercurial attention onto Damien again.

"So dude, you know where your homeroom is?"

"Ummm…" was Damien's intelligent response.

"Heh, I figured," Kenny said with a smile. He pointed towards an aging building in front of them. "Go in there. It's the main office. Someone there will tell you where to go."

"You guys are leaving? Would you like to show me where the office is first?" Damien was surprised at how disappointed he was at already parting ways with the strange kids.

Kenny shook his head in the negative, "No way dude. The main office has…issues with me, Craig, and 'Tophe. If one of us showed up there uninvited, they'd assume we'd been sent there and find something to punish us for. We see enough of that place as it is."

Damien shrugged as he started heading towards the office with a slight slump of disappointment in his shoulders. A firm grip shoulder stopped his march and he was turned around by a still smiling Kenny.

"Don't worry dude, you aren't rid of us that easy. Keep an eye out for us in your classes; check the back of the room when you go in. If we have any with you, we'll clear some loser out of a seat near us. If not…don't worry we'll hunt you down at lunch. 'Tophe's good at tracking people. I'm afraid you're stuck hanging with us for the year."

With that the blonde turned to look to another building where the French boy had stopped and was now leaning next to a glass door and glaring at them impatiently. Kenny waved cheerily at the boy, which only made seemed to irritate the Mole further.

"I gotta go," Kenny said with a smile, "he's convinced that school is the most dangerous place in South Park, so he won't let me go anywhere here without an escort. It makes bathroom breaks awkward." Kenny smiled at his own joke before checking a watch on his wrist and frowning, "Shoot. If I make us late for homeroom again, we'll both be joining you in the office. Seeing as it's only the second week of school, I'd rather not be sent there _again._"

Before Damien could ask for clarification on why the boys had been sent to the office once already, Kenny was already racing off towards the building that the Mole was waiting beside. The French boy was indeed keeping a very observant watch on the blonde, actually standing up with a start when Kenny stumbled for a second on the packed snow. When Kenny recovered and kept on racing at break neck speeds, the Mole leaned back against the building. When Kenny reached the door, he could see the Mole gesturing at the slick surface Kenny had been racing over. Even this far away Damien could make out the flippant shrug of the blonde's shoulders and the reddening of the Mole's face as they walked inside. Damien turned back towards the office once the boys were out of view, feeling an unfamiliar smile on his face. _That went better than I thought it would_.

**

* * *

**"Damien Star?" Damien stood up from his seat and moved towards the woman who was typing rapidly at a computer while speaking into a phone and simultaneously apparently talking to him. "Mr. Mackey will see you now."

A finger with a two inch long hot-pink fingernail affixed to it, directed Damien towards a door at the far end of the hallway. Staring a moment at the rather scary looking set of nails on the woman, Damien missed the cue distracted by the puzzle of just how she'd managed to operate the keyboard, or even the phone for that matter, with such ridiculous things stuck to her fingers. Shaking the image out of his mind, he was about to follow her directions, when the office door opened behind him and the receptionist looked past Damien with a smile.

"Why miss Testaburger, what brings you here?"

Damien turned to observe the girl walking in to the room. The look was more curiosity than appreciation. His experience with females was very limited, mostly interactions during his last visit to Earth. Furthermore he avoided the dead mortals as much as he could in Hell, so he mostly associated with the Fallen who were all male, or at least built like men. The issue of angelic gender was something Damien had never bothered asking about, probably because a matter-of-fact lecture on the divine version of the birds and the bees from Penemue would have just been…weird. He was pretty sure his instructor felt the same way on the issue since no one had ever bothered giving Damien the mortal version of 'the talk.' Penemue's had opted instead to wait till Damien left for lessons on his thirteenth birthday before laying a half-dozen books on the subject neatly on Damien's bed, to be found when he returned. As far as Damien could tell they didn't seem particularly interesting from the pictures and books. That discovery had been worrisome for the teenage Damien. The last thing Damien wanted then was to have anything else in common with his dad, especially with the way Satan acted with his male lovers.

Seeing a girl his age in the flesh, he tried to find some attraction, even if just to spite the memory of his father. Glumly he found himself uninterested. Of course, he'd also not been that moved by the boys on the bus, so there was still hope. If he was very lucky, he could be just like the Fallen, completely uninterested in either gender. An odd hope for a boy to have, but considering his father, it was understandable that Damien would be very averse to the idea of attraction in general and the disturbing power it might give someone over him.

For her part, the girl eyed Damien up and down in a quick glance before dismissing him. He returned the favor, as unimpressed as she was. The opinion was reinforced when he saw the disgustingly saccharine smile she used on the receptionist.

"Oh Gloria, I love what you've done with your nails," she said sweetly. The Testaburger girl dropped another notch in Damien's estimation when she praised the hideous finger accessories. Damien headed towards the door he'd been directed to earlier, his curiosity in girls quite satisfied, until the girl said something interesting.

"I was wondering if you could help me locate a new student," Damien's ears perked and he slowed his step as he listened to the girl's words intently. Was she asking about him? Was she one of those people Penemue wanted him to be cautious of? "His name is Gregory, he just transferred here."

Damien relaxed a little. His fears were slightly appeased, though he remained cautiously suspicious. _She might just be using a different name because I'm right here._ _Or they might have mixed the other new kid up with me, and gotten the wrong name. Or she could just be genuinely curious about some new boy she'd checked out._ Whatever the reason, Damien was still uneasy and he sped up his step. He hoped he could get out of the room before the receptionist remembered him, and let the girl know there were more new students.

He slowed at Mr. Mackey's door, preparing himself for the upcoming unpleasantness. As he peaked in to the office he recognized the man all too easily. Mr. Mackey had not changed an inch from the last time Damien had visited one of his offices and Damien had not forgotten that unpleasant memory at all.

"Well hello there Damien. Come on in, mmmkay," the guidance counselor greeted Damien and motioned to one of his seats.

"Hello, Mr. Mackey," Damien said as he took the seat. He tried to keep his voice clear of contempt and menace but he didn't achieve his goal. Not when he'd been suppressing dislike for this man for the past nine years. And for good reasons. First, Mr. Mackey's thin, misshapen body was very similar to Sariels. Secondly, Damien had come to realize after leaving Earth the last time that the man had given him pretty terrible advice. He had definitely made things much worse for Damien. It was no wonder poor Phillip was treated so badly back in third grade, if he'd been going to this man for counseling. The idea that the man was still being employed by the school system and undoubtedly still spreading his horrible influence on the unwarned, was irksome. Especially if Phillip was one of those naïve victimes.

"We don't have much time I'm afraid, Damien," Mr. Mackey began. "I've got to finish up a lot of appointments before I go down to the elementary school, mmmkay."

"That's ok," Damien said as he tried to hide his relief at the news. "What do you need to see me for?"

"Well, we had a little…glitch with the computer, mmmkay. For some reason when you were here last we had enrolled under the wrong last name. I know it's Star, Damien, mmmkay, but…it's just the darndest thing…the computer has your name down under Morningstar. Now we can fix it, but the problem is that we already assigned your homeroom based on the wrong last name. So the computer put you in Homeroom 402 instead of 403, mmmkay."

Damien had absolutely no clue what on earth any of that 402 or 403 stuff meant, but he was a bit uneasy at the Morningstar reference. Not that it was surprising that Penemue's Working had missed the computer. Technology was notoriously problematic for the archaic denizens of both Heaven and Hell to manipulate. What made Damien uneasy, was what other things might have been recorded on a computer somewhere and missed? He wondered how he might find out, possibly a few casual questions to his new friends later.

"Ummm…is that a problem?" Damien asked pensively, when he realized Mr. Mackey was waiting for a response.

"Not really, mmmkay. Though you might prefer 403. See…I remember you having trouble with other boys before. You know how the kids were picking on you and yelling at you and starting fights with you, mmmkay," Damien glowered at the man's clear lack of tact. Clueless as ever, Mr. Mackey blundered on, "And well you see 402 has a lot of troublemakers in it. And troublemaking…well troublemaking is bad, mmmmkay."

"Troublemakers?"

"You know, instigators, class clowns, rabble-rousers," at Damien's clear confusion Mr. Mackey changed tactics, "Students that like to cause problems. Like Cartman and McCormick and Delorne and Marsh. You might remember some of those names from the third grade. You see, some of the worst kids are in 402, mmmkay."

Damien tried to hide a smile. Cartman didn't worry him anymore. He'd learned a lot about himself and his self image and that idiot had no power over him anymore. Even if some of the other kids were problems, apparently Kenny McCormick was in 402, which meant the Mole would be as well. Damien was sure they could help him deal with any one else.

Damien hid a smile as he considered the clear expression of distaste on Mr. Mackey's face at his list of names. _If I have my way, you'll be adding Star to that list dickwad. _Damien intended to inflict a bit of revenge on the obnoxious counselor for the bad advice he'd given to both himself and Phillip. Luckily, if his friend Kenny was already on Mr. Mackey's bad side, he would probably be willing to help.

"I think I can handle being in 402, Mr. Mackey," Damien concealed his smile poorly as he considered his good luck with the computer error.

"If you think so, mmmkay. But Damien, you should try not to be too confident mmmkay. See confidence makes people uncomfortable. And making others feel uncomfortable is bad. You should try to be more passive. People like that, mmmkay. It makes them feel better about their own insecurities. And making people feel better about themselves is good, mmmkay."

Damien tried not to scoff at the terrible advice before realizing that Mr. Mackey probably wouldn't notice the scoff anyway. Liberated by the revelation he frowned openly at the man. True to his suspicions, Mr. Mackey didn't respond to Damien's visible dislike as he smilingly pushed a booklet across his desk towards Damien.

"Now this is the school handbook. It has all the rules you need to follow. And following the rules is good. Not like breaking them, 'cause that's bad, mmmkay? You can go ahead and read that in the office till the bell for homeroom is over. Then you can go to first period. Which for you is…astronomy, in room 415, mmmkay? There's a map in the back of the book that should help find it. Do you have anything else I can help with?"

"There's nothing you can help me with," Damien replied sarcastically.

"Well good for you, mmmkay," Mr. Mackey smiled and waved happily as Damien left the room. Once the boy was gone left Mr. Mackey put Damien's folder away and reviewed his appointment book as he spoke to himself, "What a nice young man. What's next, mmmkay? Cartman? Already?"

Mr. Mackey slumped into his chair. Even his positivity had its limits and about 14 years of counseling to the students currently in the senior class had been…draining.

"At least they all graduate this year, mmmkay." There was no doubt about that either. The teachers had agreed secretly that there'd be no failing students in the senior class, no matter how much easy extra credit had to be handed out. Get them all out and into colleges far, far away. The local community college had already been warned not to accept any of the current senior students.

"One more year," Mr. Mackey said to himself before activating the intercom to contact his receptionist outside. "Gloria, if you could just go ahead and send in Mr. Cartman, mmmkay?" As soon as the intercom shut off, he sighed heavily and struggled to maneuver an enormous folder, marked with the name Cartman and overflowing with papers, onto his desk. After opening it he turned a pensive look towards the office door before repeating the mantra that countless South Park school staff members had been chanting since the end the previous school year. "Just one more, mmmkay."


	14. Ch 12: In our stars or bad chemistry?

**A/N:** I know I have tried to alternate chapter PoV's to equalize face time between the two protagonists, but at this point I'm afraid that I must break pattern to adhere to the school day schedule. Beyond the timeline I am equally motivated to begin this chapter with Damien simply because I never intended it to take 12 chapters to get to the first actual Damien/Pip interaction. Yet…with all the other background and detail to set up, and firmly establishing "social circles" for both…well here we are, at Chapter 12 with the Dip finally to begin its rocky road. Of course there would have been some poetic justice in pushing it back to Chapter 13, with all the ominous superstition accompanying that number. But…there is enough ill-luck and misfortune coming in the next chapter already. As it happens FF-net counts the Prologue as Chapter 1, and the Interlude as a chapter, so the true Chapter 13 is lost to me anyway.

Expect Gregory to return next chapter, though he will be 'sharing' it with Damien, as we move onto my favorite class. As the story progresses expect more chapter splitting. Truth be told I expect PoV to become a fairly fluid thing, especially during school days. There is simply too much going on in some classes/scenes that require observations from both protagonist, as well as the slew of supporting casts. I'd either have to switch back and forth in the chapter, or retell the entire scene in the next chapter for the second PoV. Considering how long the storyline is on my laptop, I think I can do without doubling the chapter length unnecessarily. And as a personal opinion, I tend to prefer the switching PoV to the scene retelling. I feel the story flows smoother along the timeline, even if it loses some of its rigidity in viewpoint.

Anywho, enough useless babble. Hopefully you skipped this and went right to the good stuff. If not…stop poking around my silly rambling and scoot on ahead to the story. I won't mind!

Enjoy you wonderful readers,

Sky

**

* * *

**

"Man is his own star; and the soul than can,

Render an honest and a perfect man,

Commands all light, all influence, all fate.

Nothing to him falls too early, or too late.

Our acts, our angels are, for good or ill,

Our fatal shadows that walk buy us still." ~ John Fletcher

Chapter 12: Is it in our stars or bad chemistry?

Sometimes Fate was one stubborn bitch. You left your old home, moved to a new place, finally made a few friends, you even _changed your fundamental dimension of existence_, but some things just couldn't be escaped. Especially not Fate's bosom buddies, the stars. _I hate them and everything else in the sky that brings Sariel joy. _Sariel might be in another world, shamed in front of the Fallen, never able to give Damien another assignment ever, and yet Damien's tormentor was still winning. The slip of paper in Damien's hand trembled a little in his grip as he read the first line again.

7:50-8:35 - First period – Astronomy – Room 415 - Mr. Brahe

No matter how strongly Damien wished and stared at the paper, the assignment remained unchanged. Likewise, glaring at the door with the letters 415 etched in the opaque glass did nothing to remove the room from existence. Not that Damien couldn't do just that. A little tweak of probability, not even a big touch of chaos, just a few minor changes to the air in the room, substitute in some hydrogen and incite a spark. Fire was the easiest thing in the world to generate. Everything and everyone was flammable with enough effort, all it took was finding the right chaotic chance that you had a substance on hand that could ignite at the temperature available. You could also provide a little friction, say with the snap of a finger, to create a pinpoint instant of dramatically increased heat. From there you just needed to provide the timber. Once a fire got started, it tended to grow both chaotically and with ordered deliberation. It really didn't need any help at that point. This was part of why even demons used it so effectively. Damien could think of a dozen easy ways Room 415 could be scoured from the earth, taking along with it this Mr. Brahe. The bastard undoubtedly deserved his face for choosing to teach astronomy.

There was a downside of course. If the angels and demons didn't catch him, Penemue would. And that would be _unpleasant._ Possibly worse than suffering through the actual class itself. So he was stuck with taking the class. There was still one faint hope; his new friends might be in the class. None of the three boys seemed particularly studious, they'd be sure to keep him so entertained he might be able to tune out the stupidity being crammed down his throat. It wasn't like he needed to pay attention to pass whatever tests the class could offer. _I know the damn things backwards and forward. By name, color, size, order, age. I've never even seen the stupid things and I know them all by fucking heart. Sariel drilled it all into my head so thoroughly I can't forget no matter how hard I tried. Then he still turned around and told Penemue I wasn't trying hard enough. Claimed I didn't understand them on a fundamental level. Said I couldn't be taught to 'Work' with them. He crammed me with theory then got pissed that I didn't get more out of it than he put in. Nothing was ever good enough for him, or dad or-_

The bell rang announcing the end of homeroom. According to the school handbook he'd painstakingly read for clues on things that would irritate Mr. Mackey in the future, between classes there were ten minutes for students to get from their prior class, to lockers, and then the next class. With a shrug Damien pushed the door open, examining the room as he entered.

Maps of the night sky took up some walls, but others had maps of the world at large, as well as random other countries on display. Clearly, Mr. Brahe taught subjects other than Astronomy. A very small point in his favor. Perhaps he didn't deserve outright death by incineration. The teacher was blissfully unaware of how close his life had come to ending a few minutes prior as he was in the midst of a nap, his head resting on meaty arms folded on his desk. It was Mr. Brahe's very good fortune that he looked nothing like Sariel, one more point in favor of his life not ending early this very school year in a fiery cataclysm. He was an obese man, fat by even the kindest of standards, and possessed of a ruddy complexion and bushy red mustache. By all available clues this man enjoyed food and sleep at least as much as any intellectual pursuits. _With any luck he only likes Astronomy because of the lack of physical activity. Maybe he just spends a lot of time lying on his back and happens to teach Astronomy because Cloud-watching isn't a subject. _

Things were looking up and that wasn't a bitter pun on star-gazing in any way. Still Damien refused to get excited. Even if luck was with him and the man was completely indifferent to the subject, it was still his job to cram useless knowledge down Damien's unwilling throat. Knowledge Damien either already had memorized or could care less about. If there were no distractions, Damien would still be stuck listening to every droning minute of it. Remembering Kenny's parting words, Damien went to the very back of the class sitting in the center of the final row, to wait and hope.

Five slow minutes passed with various students wandering into the room, most choosing rows near the front, though only one sat in the very first row. Not one of them glanced back, looked around, or showed any inclination or interest in sitting in the rearmost row. Damien barely gave the back of their heads any consideration, seeing as none of them were wearing an orange jacket, a militaristic turtleneck, or odd blue hat. Well, the single kid sitting in the front row was wearing a dark blue cap, but it was all wrong, lacking the odd dangly things that had hung from Craig's cap. And his jacket was the wrong color and style, a dark red blazer.

At six minutes the signs of anxiety were starting to show, the pencil in Damien's hands twisted and twirled, his eyes darted from door to clock and back again, he even started to gnaw on his lip absently. Damien started considering his options if none of them turned up. Blowing the room up was out of the question now. The more people he involved in the explosion the worse it would be for him when all those souls showed up at their destination with his name under their 'manner of death.' Getting out of the class via official channels was equally unlikely. There was no way Lee would contradict Penemue's orders and even if he did, Penemue would find out eventually and that'd be a whole mess of bad. _There's nothing I can do to get out of day after day after day of this._

Damien groaned by minute seven, the sound actually getting a few curious faces to turn to him and causing the slumbering giant in front to shift to wakefulness, peering at the disturbance and the students in surprise. Mr. Brahe's eyes narrowed at Damien in the back, identifying the noisy student by the fidgeting and clear unhappiness practically oozing out of Damien's body. Dismissing the disturbance, Mr. Brahe yawned before slowly rummaging through his papers, moving aside charts to pull out a particularly thick book that elicited a second groan from Damien.

Mr. Brahe looked straight at him then, his face actually reddening a bit more in irritation. Elsewhere in the class a few girls giggled and a boy stifled a laugh. The teacher scoured the room with a disdainful glare before returning to the book. The reaction lit a small flare of hope in Damien's miserable heart. There was a small chance after all. This man was clearly easy to irritate. And there were the other students to play off of. Mr. Brahe was no Fallen to hold back his irritation with immortal will, coldly ignoring distraction and forcing the lecture through while extracting vengeance in more subtle ways. He'd probably snap at the slightest provocation and unlike Sariel, he had other students to attend to. He'd have no choice but to send Damien to the office. _Principal's office or Astronomy….tough choice…not._

With a little luck he could have this man demanding that the principal remove Damien from his class in less than a week. And it'd be great practice for Mr. Mackey's fate. It wasn't like Damien needed to excel in everything, or anything for that matter. He just had to do well enough to keep Penemue happy. _But he won't be happy at all if I'm expelled from a class because of misbehavior. Think! There's a way to make this work._

Again Damien considered what his current teacher lacked that his old nemesis had and the solution was apparent. Sariel had Penemue's respect, no mortal had that. All Damien had to do was play on Penemue's dislike for the weakest and worst of traits in mortals. Damien just had to convince Penemue that the man was impossible to work with, and his complains were all because of his own inadequacies and not deliberate actions on Damien's part. One look through Lee's eyes at a man who so obviously gave into the vices of gluttony and sloth and Penemue would forgive Damien any trouble Mr. Brahe had with him. If Damien softened the news with promises to read some of Sariel's stupid book and proved to Penemue that despite Sariel's claims he _did know_ the stars backwards and forwards, Penemue wouldn't even be upset with him over it.

_All I have to do is get this man to hate me. This is going to be so easy._ Damien stood up and checked the clock one last time. Two minutes still left before class was ready to start, but Damien had no interest in delaying his plan by a second, at this point even if Kenny and the others were in the class he still wanted to do this. He was going to start his relationship with Mr. Brahe off on the right foot. Literally the right foot, since Damien's gaze was locked on the man's stubby legs stretched out under the desk and into the front aisle. _Just step on him by mistake while asking some inane question about getting the bathroom pass with two minutes still left before class even starts. That should piss him off twice over and keep me looking innocent so I can blame it all on him hating me from the start later._

Damien carefully schooled his face into an innocent expression; it did not come naturally at all. As he reached the front row of seats he lifted his eyes to the man's squinting pig-like face as he readied himself to deliver a vicious kick to the exposed shin. He was already figuring out what to do next, hoping to be out of this class before ten minutes passed. But…Fate is a bitch. A bitch that love's her stars and hated Damien.

"Damien?" The question burst its way through Damien's scheming thoughts, all but shouted in surprise by a voice right beside him. Damien hadn't heard his name pronounced with that particular accent in a very long time, but the memory shoved aside his hastily made plans and arrested his walk mid-step. Very slowly Damien turned to look down at the one boy sitting alone in the front row. A boy wearing a red blazer and tie. A boy whose strands of long blonde hair peeked out from beneath a dark blue cap, framing a face all at once familiar and yet so very different from a memory of so long ago. Phillip Pirrup. _Oh…fuck._

Utter shock, surprise, worry, and roughly nine years of repressed guilt battled for control of Damien's response, tying up Damien's tongue as he stared down at the blonde dumbly.

**

* * *

**

_Oh god, now I've done it. This isn't Damien at all is it? Just some random new bloke who probably thinks I'm loony. _

But Phillip had been so positive it was Damien. And the revelation had come as such a surprise he hadn't had time to think it out before shouting. He'd noticed the boy in the back when someone had groaned in irritation and gained everyone's attention. From that moment on Phillip had been distracted by that odd combination of pale skin, black hair, and fiery crimson eyes. The image had tickled its way through his memory, causing him to completely forget about facing forward again, despite the fact that Mr. Brahe had spent all of last week impressing upon them just how very, very important it was to pay attention in his class. Especially if you were lucky enough to be 'allowed' in the front row.

Instead Phillip had been sitting almost backward in his chair watching as that boy's face transformed from restless exasperation into a mask of focused determination. Then when he'd stood up and started to walk towards the front, it had come together. The confidant stride, the intensity in his stare that seemed it was a second away from setting the air in front of him on fire, the purposeful arrogance in every step. By the time the boy had reached Phillip, the name was on his lips before his mind was finished wondering how this boy could have come to be here. And he'd blurted that name out. Like an idiot.

And now this very attractive boy who could in no way be a ghost of a memory from nine years before, was staring at him as if he'd grown extra heads. For that matter the whole class was staring at him. Phillip felt the crimson sneak up his face as his streak of very unusual brashness turned back into his normal bashfulness in seconds. _What's come over me? It's got to be a reaction from all the excitement this weekend. I'm just not used to having someone my age living at the Fosterage. Having Gregory around has me so off balance that I'm saying all sorts of stupid things out loud today. First I almost bring up the dating thing right in front of Leopold, then there was finding that sword in school, and now I'm shouting names of boys from years and years ago at perfect strangers. In front of the entire class. _

And it wasn't Damien. It couldn't be. What were the odds two random boys from a year of school nine years past would just return out of the blue in the same week? Add on to that, the fact that this boy looked almost afraid of Phillip, definitely not a trait of Damien's. How could he even begin to think this guy looked like Damien since his only memories of the boy were of an eight year old? _You've been spending too much time trading stories about third grade with Gregory you great big ninny. _

The silence stretched on for a few seconds more before Phillip choked down a gulp of air and forced an uneasy smile onto his face as he looked up. From his seated position the not-Damien boy towered over him in an imposing manner. Instead of figuring a way out of his situation, Phillip had to keep himself from checking out the boy. It was very hard to ignore the almost devilishly good looks. It was so unnatural, almost fey, but still so very alluring. Phillip's eyes trace down the fairly tight shirt to take in more of the boy before he caught himself and forced his gaze back up to the hauntingly familiar eyes. He looked so much like Damien. Or at least a lot like Phillip would want Damien to look. _A lot like I'd want any boy to look. Oh god, Phillip! Stop this before you start drooling or worse. _Ge_t a grip on yourself and say something before he thinks you're bloody daft on top of being rude._

**

* * *

**

_Say something. Anything. How have you been all these years? Why do you remember me? Is it because you have developed a pathological fear of open flames? Have I scarred you for life? Do you hate me? I'm sorry?_

Nothing managed to bridge the gap of stunned surprise between brain and tongue. In spite of the obvious fact that he might bump into Phillip again, Damien had managed to not make a single plan for this occasion. He was so sure he'd notice Phillip first and have time to figure it out. He should have had a chance to get his emotions and thoughts in order first. And why not? He'd kept the picture perfectly unwrinkled and examined it countless times; he should have recognized this boy among all others from a mile away. He certainly shouldn't have spent eight minutes in the same damn room without realizing it.

But Phillip had to ruin everything by growing up. Penemue had even warned him to expect these sorts of changes. Phillip was definitely not the eight year old boy in the picture anymore. It was almost a betrayal to all that effort and care he'd taken with that stupid old photograph. Phillip had changed. And yet face to face, he could still tell this Phillip, appearances might have changed but little else had. Even without the accent, he could have identified it from the way the boy called out his name with that same old bubbly cheer. Granted that easily identifiable emotion was fading fast as Phillip's expression became more strained and his eyes dropped down to his desk and back up to Damien's face a few times. That only reinforced the fact that it had to be Phillip. Alongside the cheer, the bashfulness, innocence and insecurity were ingrained in every fiber of his soul. And alien to everything Damien had grown up with.

Damien felt his mouth fall open, but nothing came out at first. Then Phillip spoke again.

"Uh, sorry chap. Mistaken identity. I just…you…I thought you were someone I used to know. Please don't be offended." Phillip was biting his upper lip now, his cheeks red with embarrassment and his eyes wide with worry.

"I am," Damien replied in a daze. It wasn't quite eloquent, but Damien felt obligated reassure the wilting boy that he was indeed who Phillip thought he was. Then Phillip's face fell as he shrank into his chair in fear. Damien almost felt sick with guilt; sure Phillip had somehow remembered everything he'd done to him in spite of the Working. Then he realized exactly what Phillip had said and how his answer was interpreted. He almost smacked his head though he halted just before impact and instead ran his hand through his hair, clearing non-existent strands from his face. Seeing the confusion and worry in Phillip's face he tried again, this time going for quantity by speaking in a rush of words to make sure he didn't get misunderstood again.

"No, I didn't mean…I'm not offended…I meant…I am the boy you thought- I," with a weary groan Damien stopped himself mid-word and took a breath. As he exhaled he sank into the seat beside Phillip before resting his elbows on his knees and leaning across the aisle-way. Starting slowly he finished the awkward answer, "I am Damien."

By the he finished Damien was wincing inside. Compared to that mess, his first 'I am,' was practically prose! _What the hell's wrong with me? Is this seriously the best I can come up with?_

"Oh, really?" Phillip was sitting back up, the pensive smile already twisting its way back onto his face. "I can't believe you came back! How have-"

The bell rang cutting off the sentence mid word. Phillip abruptly clammed up and looked towards the front of the class. Damien did not catch the hint. He was not ready to give up just yet, not now that he'd actually gotten words out.

"I didn't catch that. What were you-" Damien began, before being interrupted.

"I do believe that was the bell. And that means we are now on MY time not yours. So if the little chatting could end now. I'd be so very appreciative." Mr. Brahe even sounded thick, with his ponderous, booming voice.

"I'm sorry that was my-" Phillip began.

"None of that Mr. Pirrup. We don't offer excuses in this class. We just do better. And I always expect better from someone in my front row. In this instance you had nothing to apologize for anyway. You weren't the one speaking. My comment was directed to you Mr. …" the teacher let his voice trail off as he turned to Damien.

Damien felt the grin that had started creeping across his face turn feral, his smile exposing razor sharp canines to the fat interrupter. He started to ignore the man completely, turning to continue taking to Phillip, but the look on Phillip's face was filled with worry. Damien was at a loss as to what there was to fear from the man? How hard would it be to take him in a fight? Just take out his legs and he'd have less chance than a turtle on its back. There was absolutely nothing this man could do to him. _Except kick me out of this class…fuck._

In spite of the fact that Damien had been hoping to achieve that very goal less than a minute prior, pissing off the teacher had suddenly lost all of its appeal. What if this was the only class that Phillip was in? What if this was his one chance to get all that guilt off his chest and try to make some kind of amends with the kid he'd royally screwed over? Damien almost felt his stomach twist in revulsion as he turned back to Mr. Brahe and tried to school his smile into something that didn't quite say, 'I hate you, die now.'

"Damien…Star," the response was flat, devoid of any emotion. Damien figured a hollow response was better than letting any of the emotions he was feeling trickle into his answer.

"What an ironic name for this class Mr. Star," Mr. Brahe laughed at his own joke, oblivious that no one else joined in. "As you are new to my class I will overlook the fact that you clearly sat in the front row by mistake. You see, students in my class are assigned seats. As you can see I space them out," Damien turned to see that all the students were indeed sitting isolated in an almost checkerboard pattern. "This keeps their attention on me and off…others." He said the last while pointing at Phillip who shrank again. Damien leaned closer protectively while glaring upward. The urge was to hit the man if his hand flashed towards Phillip again, but in a show of incredible restraint he was not putting the idiot in his place.

When Damien made no move to stand up and in fact proved the teacher's point about distraction by leaning in closer to Phillip, Mr. Brahe rubbed his temples in irritation. Then he examined his chubby fingers in distaste before flinging away the beads of sweat that had transferred from his forehead. Clearly he had overexerted himself with the effort of standing up and shouting. He sighed dramatically before speaking again this time slowly with overemphasized annunciation, "Mr. Star. I'm afraid you cannot simply sit where you like. The only students whom I allow to sit where they want are the students who sit in the front row. And my front row is not a right, it is a privilege. One that I only reserve for my, if you'll pardon the jest, 'star pupils,'" again he chuckled, while several muffled groans sounded from the room.

"So maybe I'm one of them. Star pupils that is," Damien said with a hint of caustic challenge sneaking into his voice as he leaned back into his seat and folded his long arms across his chest.

Enormous eyebrows, like red, wooly caterpillars, climbed Mr. Brahe's forehead as he mumbled a moment incoherently. Then he sat down ponderously, his chair creaking in protest as he fanned himself and stared at Damien a bit dumbfounded. Out of the corner of his eye Damien caught Phillip staring equally amazed. Very aware of Phillip's attention, Damien gave into the urge to sit a little further back. For no reason he could figure out he suddenly felt the need to achieve the same look of 'cool indifference' that Christophe and Craig had shown when he met them.

"Well…well…well then. I suppose…why not. But I warn you Mr. Star. If you don't pass muster, I expect you to sit where I tell you, which I think will be where you sat when you came in. In the very back, far away from any…distractions," Mr. Brahe emphasized his point with a wagging in Damien's direction.

Very proud of how maturely he was handling this, for example he completely resisted the urge to remove the wagging finger from the man's hand, Damien nodded his agreement.

"I mean it Mr. Star. Your word that you will go back without a single argument or complaint," Mr. Brahe leaned in to emphasize his seriousness.

"My word," the smile slipped from Damien's face as he leaned in suddenly very serious. Damien Morningstar did not break promises, even to fat, filthy mortal worms. Besides how hard could this be? Sariel had taught him the mortal names for the stars right alongside with the ancient ones, hoping to trip him up with the confusing comparison. After surviving that monster of a teacher, what chance did this guy have? Beside him Phillip actually gulped a little and Damien shot him a smile to reassure him that there was nothing at all to worry about.

"Very well, the North star, use by sailors as a reference is more common-" Mr. Brahe began in a droning tone, undoubtedly planning on easing his workload by teaching the class as he tested Damien. Damien was having none of it.

"Polaris," Damien replied flatly, cutting the question off mid-sentence.

Mr. Brahe stopped a moment blinking in surprise before harrumphing. He drew a deep breath before beginning again. "As we move out of our solar system, you'll find the next close-"

"Alpha Centauri," Again Damien cut to the chase, determined not to give the man the satisfaction of his grandstanding style of teaching.

The man stopped a second time showing a hint of displeasure now. With a grind to his teeth he stopped addressing the class in general and turned his whole attention on Damien. He leaned forward, planting his elbows on the desk and eliciting another groan of protest from the wooden furniture.

"The constellation the Great Bear is also-"

"Ursa Major," Damien made a show of leaning away into his seat as Mr. Brahe leaned in. Beside him he heard Phillip choke off a small laugh and Damien felt the strangest bubble of a smile forming on his own face in spite of the irritation he felt at the teacher. The corners of his mouth turned a little upward…with no effort or conscious thought on his part. That usually only happened when Cerberus was around. Or he pulled off a particularly good prank. It never happened when he was having a lesson, especially one on stars. Before he could wonder at the reaction the next question was fired, in response to his own.

"Which contains another constell-"

"Big Dipper," Damien wasn't one for showmanship, but the faster he answered the more amused Phillip seemed to get, so why the hell not?

"Which is made up of seven-"

"Alkaid, Alcor, Mizar, Alioth, Megrez, Phecda, Merak, and Dhube."

With each name gasps were escaping students behind him. Mr. Brahe looked equally astounded until he counted the responses silently then smirked.

"I'm afraid that was eight, Mr. St-"

"Alcor and Mizar are stacked, they appear as one."

Now students were openly laughing, not that Mr. Brahe noticed. He stared a moment before mumbling and rummaging through the giant book in front of him and flipping the pages. At last he found what he was looking for and counted out a few names. Sure enough he mouthed eight of them before nodding at Damien. A few students clapped and only then did Mr. Brahe realize he'd lost control of his own classroom. With a grimace he waved the students to silence.

"Very well. Clearly you know your stars. Of course there's more to stars than just Astronomy. To earn the kind of freedoms I grant my top students I expect you to know about the planets, moons, nebulae phenomena, and more."

Damien felt the first hitch in his confidence. Stars Sariel had covered in great abundance. The Moon as well. But beyond the planets of this solar system, Sariel had shown no concern for the others. Too far away to be used in Workings. Only stars had the kind of power to reach from such great distances. Feeling his confidence fade, Damien stopped leaning back and shifted in his seat as his shoulders dropped slightly. Before he could think of some appropriate response Phillip piped up beside him.

"Mr. Brahe, that's not very fair. The test for front row was only on the constellations. You shouldn't test him on extra stuff that you haven't even taught yet."

Damien shot Phillip a look of gratitude that for some reason caused the poor Brit to flush almost crimson. Phillip immediately broke the eye contact and returned his pleading gaze to the teacher. Behind him a few other students muttered in mutinous agreement.

"Very well," Mr. Brahe seemed flustered at being called out. "One more question though," again angry voices rose from the other students. After that last one what did Damien still have to prove? Still Mr. Brahe took on a sickeningly placating tone, "Now now. I will be fair. This one will be common knowledge. Very easy for someone with as much background as Mr. Star seems to have. Name the brightest star in our sky."

The entire class turned to Damien and he stared back in surprise, mulling quietly. Surely there was a trick here, the man wouldn't be so confident if there wasn't something sneaky about this one. Then he realized the man hadn't specified the conditions. Smirking back he responded.

"By what standards? Light emission? Visibility to the naked eye? What season?"

To Damien's displeasure Mr. Brahe only smiled wider. "Naked eye Mr. Star. You're making it too hard. I promised you an easy one and I am a man of my word. I hope you are as well," he grinned as he gestured mockingly towards the seats at the back of the class. Damien glowered back at the implied insult to his honor.

Unfortunately Damien was at an impasse. He was sure if he asked for more clarification he'd be accused of stalling. Worse Mr. Brahe clearly knew what options he was considering and felt he was on the wrong track. _Fuck. Above the Equator, Sirius is the brightest of the bright stars, but your position on the earth can sometimes cause it to fade into the horizon. Some of the double stars can get pretty bright, but he said single star. And below the equator it's all different. Then there are the variable stars that are brighter at certain seasons. _

Damien was never one to feel the pressure in any situation. So why was he suddenly very concerned with his answer? It's not like he cared if Mr. Brahe or even the students behind felt any respect for him. He could just stand up now and walk to the back and at least deprive the teacher the pleasure of a wrong answer to gloat over. Damien's feet ignored the suggestion and he had a pretty good guess as to why they were being so stubborn. _Phillip's watching damn it._

He threw a look to his left, expecting to see disappointment on Phillip's face. Instead Phillip was hiding a tiny smile. As soon as Damien met his gaze Phillip rolled his eyes towards the window and winked. Damien looked at the window in confusion. What did a bright, sunny day have to do with astronomy? …_Oh, Damien, you dumb fuck._

With a groan of irritation at the sheer stupidity of both himself and the question, Damien felt very little satisfaction when he moaned out the answer. "Sol. The sun."

One look at the disappointment on Mr. Brahe's face was all he needed to see to know he'd guessed right.

"Very well then. So you can reason as well as recite. I must congratulate you Mr. Star. It appears a brilliant mind can hide in even the most, unimpressive of shells. You may remain in your seat."

In spite of the back-handed compliments Damien smiled in victory. This was mostly because he missed everything the man had said, turning to share a conspirational grin with Phillip the instant he'd seen the look of disappointment on Mr. Brahe's face signaling his victory. He opened his mouth to say something appropriate to Phillip, when a meaty fist landed on the desk in front of him.

"I still expect you to remain quiet during class, Mr. Star. If you wish to talk to Mr. Pirrup so badly I'm sure it can wait till after class." A few stifled snorts behind them had Phillip flushing again and Damien shot a glare over his shoulder that silenced the students as effectively as Mr. Brahe's slamming fist.

"As Mr. Pirrup is already aware, my star pupils are held to a relaxed standard during class, but at a price. On one hand you may sit at front and ask questions concerning the lecture without waiting for permission. You will also be excused from my Friday classes and the weekly quizzes I proctor on that day. Lastly I will permit you to miss classes for independent study when the rest of the class has days to work on their papers, which you will be excused from as well. But for all of this I will expect you to produce for me. A star journal to be made each weekend and turned in for my inspection Monday. I'll expect it to be a thorough one; at least an hour spent observing the stars as you record your observations. And every Monday a report on my desk, two pages minimum, on something current with astronomical implications, you may use the libraries research journals, news, and the internet as a resource. If the quality of these reports slips, or you become delinquent in your journal," Mr. Brahe waved at the back of the room leaving the threat clear.

Then Mr. Brahe dropped the subject with a weary sigh before leaning back in his chair and rotating the seat so he could look at the board behind him. He pulled out a pointer so that he would not even have to stand to motion at the chart on the wall. He began to ramble on about the names of common constellations. As he droned on the students around Damien pulled out notebooks and soon the room was filled with the sound of scribbling. Damien turned to Phillip, but was disappointed to see the Brit was recording the notes as busily as any other kid in the class. Deprived of the boy's attention Damien slumped into his seat, fending off a very odd desire to pout.

Damien distracted himself by watching Phillip's pencil move in a blur across the page as he tried to work out just what was going on in his head. Sure he'd shown up the teacher and gotten the right to sit wherever he'd wanted. Yet, by all accounts he'd surely lost this fight. First of all he was still in this class and now there was no way he'd ever be able to convince the teacher he was too stupid and boring to teach. Worse he was stuck at the very front, the epicenter of the boring droning lecture, in a spot where he'd never be able to nap or plain ignore the teacher. And to top it all off, according to Mr. Brahe's explanation it seemed he'd 'earned' the right to do even more work not less. He'd just traded easy tests reciting dull facts for weekly writing assignments that would require long thought out answers.

Suddenly Phillips pencil stopped its blurring motion. Phillip waved the pencil at Damien to get his attention before tapping the corner of his notebook closest to Damien. Damien temporarily abandoned his musings as he tried to cautiously lean over and read the message written there.

Want to do your first Star journal with me this weekend?

Damien nodded numbly at Phillip, who was still facing forward, eyes on Mr. Brahe. He wasn't sure Phillip even caught his response, until he noticed a hint of red creeping up the Brit's neck and cheek before Damien lost track of it under pale blonde hair. Damien was even more confused at that reaction, as well as why he should feel so pleased with being stuck in this class of all classes. While the rest of the students dutifully recorded constellation names Damien spent the time trying to figure out just what was wrong with him. _I swear I got the worst end of this deal, so why does it feel like I won?_

**

* * *

**

The class-over bell was relief to Damien's ears when it finally rang. In that one respect perhaps he and Mr. Brahe agreed, for as soon as it's brazen tone sounded, the giant of a teacher stopped mid word, folding his arms and dropping his bulbous head down onto the meaty pillow they made. Damien stared a bit horrified and stunned at the teacher's abrupt reaction.

"Don't worry Damien," Phillip interjected as he put his notebook away, "he's not dead. I poked him the first day of class to see if he needed the school nurse. He told me that all the effort of molding our young minds exhausts him. He needs little naps between classes."

"I wouldn't have worried if he was dead," Damien indignantly denied the implication that he might be concerned about anyone's death. Phillip flinched at his tone and Damien attempted to soften the statement, "I mean…I wasn't worried about it because I could still see him breathing." _And still hear it for that matter. The man's snoring is obnoxious, even in his sleep he pisses me off!_

"Oh. Well that's good. So…uh…" Phillip trailed off a moment staring at the floor before looking back up at Damien, "You never answered my question. From before class. How have you been?"

"I've been ok, a lot's happened," Phillip perked up clearly interested in hearing more from Damien, but a particularly violent snore interrupted Damien's train of thought. "Can we talk about this somewhere quieter?" Damien gestured to Mr. Brahe and then picked up his pack and headed towards the door. Phillip nodded understandingly before following. Damien was grateful for the agreement. Phillip might be able to drown out the obnoxious snores, but Damien was about five seconds away from plugging the man's nostrils with erasers and shoving a book in his mouth to block his breathing holes.

Outside Damien discovered he had a new problem; apparently school hallways were not as quiet when students were walking in them. Damien had forgotten that there were other people at South Park High, his walk to his first class had been during homeroom when the hallways had been blissfully empty. Now they were packed wall-to-wall with students rushing in different directions or conversing loudly. He stopped to turn around and re-enter the room, but Phillip had already slipped past him, gesturing across the hall and moving through the crowd with ease. Damien stared at the escaping blonde, attempting to follow only to be bumped roughly to the side by a student rushing to his locker. Every step was maddening, masses of students forcing Damien to veer of course, up and down the hallway, passing the door he was aiming for countless times. In frustration Damien shouldered and elbowed his way through the crowd, but even that violence wasn't enough on its own. Every kid he roughly shoved had two or three more right behind them shoving back. By the time he reached the door Phillip had entered, the room was already filling with students.

Phillip waited inside the door a small grin on his face, but before Damien could even enter and finally talk, two more students popped up trying to squeeze into the door ahead of him. A dark glare caused both to jump out of the way as he stormed in first. A quick examination showed the room half full, yet still quieter than it had been outside.

"So welcome to my next class," Phillip smiled as he presented the room in a sweeping gesture. "I thought it would be the quietest option. It's so close to Astronomy that I'm usually the first one in here and get a few moments to myself. I didn't realize it'd take so long for you to…cross the hall." Though Damien gave Phillip the same glower as he had the two other students, it did very little to quell the impish smile on the boy's face at Damien's trouble with school navigation.

"Well they kept getting in my way," Damien waved at the people behind him in frustration.

"You might have gone faster if you'd tried to squeeze by them rather than punch a hole wide enough to stroll through," Phillip offered with a slight twinkle of amusement in his blue eyes.

"I shouldn't have to, I'm…" Damien swallowed the end of his statement rather than finish, "I was clearly in a hurry. They should have given way."

"Everyone's in a hurry out there. They don't want to miss their next class. Speaking of which, where are you headed, maybe I can tell you a short-cut so you don't have to fight as much traffic."

"Chemistry," Damien replied gloomily at the thought that he'd have to wander off already.

"Well lucky you, you don't have to fight the crowd! This is the chemistry class! That means we have another class together." Phillip smiled brightly, his eyes almost glowing with exuberance.

_Lucky me indeed._ Damien wondered dazedly before shaking the thought from his head.

"So where are we sitting?" Damien asked as soon as he regained control of his power of speech.

Abruptly Phillips face fell a little, the smile turning awkward.

"Well actually, we can't sit together here…" Phillip trailed off a moment reddening lightly before continuing, "You have to sit with lab partners and my group's already full. Mrs. Curie will probably put you with one of the groups that only has two students."

"Oh. Well you can just get rid of one of yours." Damien suggested, thought it came out more like a command than a request.

Phillip grimaced, "I c-can't do that. They're both friends of mine. It wouldn't be very nice."

"I can do it for you. Just point them out to me," Damien offered in what he assumed was a helpful manner.

Phillip's mouth opened a bit in shock at the suggestion and Damien realized he'd said something inapporpriate. He was about to ask just what he'd said that was so wrong when a familiar orange jacketed arm fell on his shoulder and a second blonde filled his field of vision.

"Champ! You're in our chemistry class! 'tophe and I will finally have a full group, this is awesome." Kenny spoke merrily.

"One second Kenny, I was talking to…" Damien pushed Kenny's head out the way only to find Phillip had vanished. Damien frowned unhappily and was about to storm to the front of the class, sure Phillip would be in one of the first tables. He very much wanted to finish talking to Phillip now that he'd finally started. Surely a little violence could clear a spot at Phillip's table. He couldn't be _that_ attached to his friends, right?

"No worries dude I'll take care of everything," Kenny blissfully ignored Damien as he turned and yelled to the front of the class, "Mrs. Curie!" An elderly woman looked up from an impressive array of colored vials. She gazed at the students in confusion before focusing on the waving blonde in orange near the back. By that time the rest of the class was staring at the spectacle as well, not that Kenny seemed to care. "We got our third for our lab group now," Kenny pointed at Damien. The woman nodded distractedly before returning to her chemicals.

With that Kenny was dragging Damien towards a table where the Mole was already inspecting the laid out equipment for unsafe flaws that would surely result in a Kenny death. As soon as Kenny selected a seat, the blonde started reaching curiously towards the vials laid out for the day's lab, but his hand was slapped away by the Mole.

"Non, Kenny. Some of zose are volatile. Zere shouldn't be enough to kill anyone, but with you… Just sit zere and play with…zis" the Mole trailed off as he handed Kenny a relatively harmless looking empty beaker. Kenny began to pout but the Mole rolled his eyes and returned to inspecting the tubes connecting the Bunsen burner to the gas for cracks.

Damien ignored both of them, his eyes glaring through the crowd before finally finding the hat and blazer he was looking for. As he'd guessed Phillip was sitting at the very front between two other blonde boys. All Damien could make out from their backs was their hair, one on his left covered by a violent tangle of blonde hair sticking out in every direction and strange brown stains on the wrinkled yellow shirt he was wearing. It was the other boy that earned Damien's immediate dislike. The one on Phillip's left was in a pale blue dress up shirt with his sleeves folded to the elbows. That wasn't the irritating part, it was the fact that he and Phillip were leaning in towards each other as Phillip whispered excitedly to him.

Abruptly the boy looked to the back of the room searching the students until he locked eyes with Damien. Damien did nothing to hide his angry glower and the boy's fearful squeak was audible across the room. The frightened boy's hands met in front of him, grabbing and twisting at a light blue tie around his neck before he ducked his head and faced Phillip again. Damien continued glaring at the back of his head and the short blonde spikes on it, until Phillip's head started to turn in his direction. Immediately Damien tore his gaze from the table, pretending to be interested in the Mole's inspection of their equipment.

The bell sounded before Damien could check to see if Phillip had returned to talking to his friends. The woman at front gently cleared her throat and the class fell silent respectfully.

"Well class I hope you had a pleasant weekend. Not so pleasant that you forgot to do your Pre-labs of course," she said with a smile.

Beside Damien, Kenny cursed under his breath. "Damn it, the Pre-lab!"

The Mole groaned as he reached into his pack and pulled out his own homework. "Copy it quick while I finish ze inspection. And 'urry. I don't want us stuck 'ere after ze bell."

Mrs. Curie began to describe the experiment for the day and all too soon Damien found himself so busy helping the Mole set up that he couldn't take the time to mull over the table of blondes at the front. Once Kenny finished furiously copying, he started trying to help as well which ironically only slowed things down. The Mole was now distracted by the task of keeping Kenny from mixing the wrong things, leaving Damien to do most of the work. Still the bickering between the two of them, which usually ended in the Mole tearing vials from Kenny's hands while the blonde pouted, was an amusing counterpoint to the lab work. By the end of class Damien had managed to almost completely forget about his own issues with the table at the front of the room. Until the bell rang.

As the Mole had gloomily predicted, they finished barely in time, and had not yet cleaned up their lab when the bell rang. The Mole grabbed the waste beaker from Kenny's hands, taking the mix of acids to the disposal sink at the front, while muttering angrily about the chance Kenny might trip and spill the entire beaker on himself.

Kenny shrugged before helping Damien put away the tubes. It was only when they finished and Christophe returned, that Damien at last let himself sneak a peak at Phillip's table. Unfortunately it was completely empty. He stood with a start looking around him, but he couldn't see Phillip or the other two anywhere in the room. Anger and disappointment warred equally in Damien's head at the thought that Phillip had left without saying anything. Damien mutely handed Kenny his class schedule when the blonde asked him, where he needed to go next. Both Kenny and the Mole stared at him curiously, before shrugging at his unresponsiveness and leading him out of the room.

As he re-entered the swarm of students, Damien almost hit the first person to block his path. At the last second he held back, squeezing past them instead to follow Kenny who was slipping through the crowd easily. He tried to ignore the lack of dignity in moving out of other people's way, resisting the temptation to shove, while trying to figure out why he was bothering to follow Phillip's suggestion. He barely saw their path to the next class, completely distracted by the strange questions and feelings in his head.


	15. Ch 13: Who’s Looking at You, Kid

**A/N:** Just a short apology, this was supposed to come out last Friday but I was busy being responsible and reveiwing research papers. Anywho, I apologize for the teacher's names but I just can't help but sneak all of my favorite (and least favorite depending on their portrayal) mathmeticians, philosphers, astronomers, and chemists in.

Also I very much wanted to say thanks for the constant chapter reviews, the story alerts and faves that still come even this late into the story. It's all so very encouraging!

Much love,

Sky

* * *

"We look at each other wondering what the other is thinking but we never say a thing."Ants Marching

WPW Chapter 13: Who's Looking at You, Kid

By the end of second period Gregory was afraid he'd go mad from being watched. You'd think that a lifetime of service to an all-knowing, and more importantly, all-seeing god, would make one used to being under constant surveillance. God's attention; however, was apparently not nearly as unrelenting as that of Wendy Testaburger. _Granted it could just be that you're scared about that chat she wants to have. And it certainly isn't her fault you share the first two class periods, if not more. You haven't exactly seen her looking at you yet, it could be all in your head. Or that tickle between your shoulder blades could be her watching and waiting to pounce the second your head turns._

A pensive look to his right left the answer up in the air. Sure Wendy was staring straight forward, but the action seemed deliberate. Gregory couldn't put his finger on it but her picture perfect student pose seemed false. She was watching the board too intently. As if her very life might depend on Mr. Pascal's review of derivation and integration from Calculus I. Shaking the image from his head, he turned to look to his left for a comparison with the other studious student of South Park, Kyle Broflovski. The boy there certainly didn't seem to care as much as Wendy about the review material. In fact the boy didn't seem to care about the class at all at this moment. He was intently glaring at two small objects beside his notebook in frank irritation. Seeing no reason why the boy could be so angry at two small notes that for all appearances hadn't even been opened yet, Gregory turned to the front.

He managed to get about three more equations down before the prickle between his shoulder blades started up again. Another check to the right turned up nothing, Wendy seemed unchanged. Gregory bit his lip pensively; surely he was missing something important. _Other than the notes that you're barely keeping up with. How are they getting this all written down so fast? Probably because they aren't wasting time imagining that they are being stalked?_

A cough from the front of the room caused Gregory to quickly return to watching the now frowning Mr. Pascal.

"Class, I realize this is all review, but you should still at least write some of this down," the teacher said with a slightly frustrated tone.

To his left Kyle flushed before scrambling for his pencil, pushing the two notes under his notebook. Far more worrisome; however, was the reaction to his right. Wendy seemed equally flustered and Gregory realized with alarm she hadn't been recording a thing in spite of her studious pose. When she reached for her backpack, Gregory finally had confirmation that his worry was well founded. _If she hasn't had her pencil all this time…how has she been taking the notes she's been so focused on. I wasn't imaging it, I WAS being watched._

The verification that he wasn't crazy did nothing to make Gregory feel better, but at least the prickling between his shoulder blades didn't come back during Calculus II. The temporary reprieve only lasted until the end of class.

The bell rang, bringing the review to an end. As soon as Gregory leaned over to put his things in his pack, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He knew he was the prey and the pounce was coming. Sure enough Wendy had already packed her things and was no longer putting up any pretense about where her attention was. Those amber eyes were staring straight at him, clearly waiting for him to finish. At that point he was as good as trapped in that inquisition she'd been dying to spring on him. He casually disregarded his chances at escape; her desk was between him and the door. The smirk on her face let him know she'd caught him measuring the distance. Gregory threw a silent prayer for some sort of miracle to help him avoid the unpleasant game of dodge-the-questions that was looming. Amazingly his prayer was answered, though oddly enough, not by Christian help.

"Wendy, we need to talk," Kyle's voice interrupted their standoff, causing Gregory to flinch. Judging from the way Wendy herself jumped a little, Gregory wasn't the only person who'd forgotten that there were other people in the room besides the two of them.

Her gaze flickered over Gregory's shoulder and her smirk faded to exasperation. Though her tone remained unfailingly polite and she was looking directly at Kyle, her words were very clearly directed at them both.

"Is it important Kyle? I was hoping to _finally_ catch up with Gregory here before next period," her smile was as sweet as sugar, but that didn't make Gregory feel any safer at the implications in her tone.

"No, it can't," Kyle's reply was so angry that Gregory actually turned his unguarded back to Wendy to look at Kyle.

Kyle's bag was already packed and he stood beside his desk glaring at Wendy accusingly. His hands toyed with one of the two folded notes he'd been staring at earlier. A quick inspection of the object that seemed to have caused Kyle so much consternation revealed only a large W drawn on it. Other than that it seemed harmless, just a piece of paper folded into a small square. It certainly didn't seem to warrant the angry twisting and fidgeting Kyle seemed to be inflicting on it.

"Is this going to be long?" Wendy asked, unwilling to allow Gregory such an easy escape.

"That depend on how long it takes you to tell me what the hell is going on between you and my _little_ brother," Kyle said with a hint of caustic warning when he emphasized the word little.

That at last caught Wendy's attention completely. Gregory could almost feel the weight of her focus lifting off his shoulders as her head whipped up to look at Kyle in surprise.

"Kyle, you know Ike and I are working together to stop Cartman from invading Canada again. Thats all that's going on. Not every older woman in your brother's life is trying to seduce him," she replied in a placating manner.

"Then why am I supposed to give you _this_, with strict orders not to even think about reading it first. Why is Ike sending you private notes?" Kyle responded as he thrust the object at Wendy.

Wendy stared at the paper then back at Gregory with a flush.

"Umm…well I can totally explain that Kyle, just …not here. I mean…we don't want to be late for Psych class so I'll tell you on the way." With that Wendy tossed a nervous look Gregory's way before grabbing Kyle by the hand and heading out the door.

No longer trapped, Gregory finally got out of his seat and headed out, awash with the sense of relief that something besides himself had caught Wendy's attention. More importantly, apparently he did not share a third class in a row with Wendy. Religious Studies at least would be one class free of uncomfortable prickles between his shoulder blades and the looming threat of confrontation hanging over his head.

Perhaps if Gregory hadn't let his guard down, he would have been prepared for the collision. A pale blue blur crashed head on into Gregory as soon as he stepped into the halls. The small boy that reeled back from the impact almost fell before Gregory reached out and caught his flailing hands. As he steadied the boy, Gregory recognized the agitated kid as Butters. Still not quite steady on his feet, Butters was already tossing a worried look over his shoulders and preparing to rush off again.

"Butters, is something wrong?" Gregory asked, not relinquishing his grip just yet, but instead bringing his free hand to Butters' elbow to lock him in place. It was fairly obvious that if he didn't hold the boy steady, he was likely to stumble into another person the second he was free. Butters gave a start, turning and blinking in surprise at the question, not realizing until then exactly who he'd crashed into.

"Oh, G-gregory. S-s-sorry I bumped into ya. I wa-wasn't really lookin' where I was goin'. Just tryin' to get to my next class on time," the boy said nervously.

"Well there should be plenty of time to get to room 422, it's only two doors down," Gregory explained calmingly.

"Oh, y-yeah," Butters replied sheepishly. "Wait, how did you know I was goin' to 422?"

"You said we had Religious studies together," Gregory said with a shrug.

"An' you remembered?" Butters asked with a hint of awe.

"Well, yes. Was I not supposed too?"

"Well, n-no, I mean y-yeah, but only Tweek an' Pip ever really listen when I say somethin'," Butters confessed in an embarrassed tone. His gaze evasively started wandering, only to lock on the fact that Gregory was still holding his hand. As a blush crossed the boy's cheeks, Gregory relinquished his grip afraid he'd offended the kid.

Almost the same second Gregory released his stabilizing grip, a pair of hands grasped Butters shoulders causing him to squeak in terror and stumble over his own feet as he tried to rush away. Instinctively Gregory reached back out, preventing Butters' second near fall of the day._ It's good to have the reflexes of a guardian angel, especially around some people, _Gregory thought in amusement.

Intriguingly enough, Butters' assailant appeared even more scared than Butters. In spite of being the one who had grabbed the tiny blonde, the boy behind him jumped back in alarm when Butters squeaked. His assailant then huddled defensively against the lockers, clutching his chest and twitching madly while round eyes stared at Butters in accusation.

"Gah! Butters! Don't do that man," the boy who'd grabbed Butters' shoulders reprimanded.

"S-sorry T-tweek," Butters' gaze dropped the floor guiltily, "I didn't realize you were behind me."

"Well…urg, where else would I be? We were supposed to walk form Chemistry to Studies together, but you ran out of Chem like someone was chasing you." Suddenly Tweek twitched and looked at the hallway behind them in alarm, "It wasn't gnomes was it? Oh geez, not gnomes!"

"N-n-no, no gnomes Tweek, I promise," Butters slipped free of Gregory's steadying grip to pat Tweek's shoulder and tug him away from his crouch against the lockers.

"Well then, what the hell is up with you man? Pip and I rushed out to see what was wrong but…gah. When we got outside you were already gone."

"I was just…scared," Butters' head drooped again in embarrassment. "There was this boy in class who Pip was all excited about. When I tried to get a look at him, he was glarin' at me somethin' awful. It was so mean an'…an' angry-like, I swear he looked like he wanted to tear me apart or set me on fire. An' I figured it was c-cause he knew Pip an' I were talkin' 'bout him. Then I realized he was sittin' with K-kenny an' Mole. So I thought, gee now he'll be doubly mad at me c-cause of Kenny and stuff. I…I was afraid he'd come over to our table after class and hit me. Or bring Mole and Kenny with him when he came to talk to Pip, which would mean…well you know," Butters finished miserably.

"Yeah, man it's erk…it's ok, let's just get to class. And try to leave the paranoia to me," Tweek made fun of himself to ease Butters' nerves.

Completely mystified as to just what he was missing, from killer kids to stalking gnomes, and whatever the mysterious 'you know' meant Gregory followed behind the two with a shaking head. All too quickly they reached 422. To his surprise the room was not set out as he expected. Most of the chairs were pushed back against a far wall with only eight seats left arranged in a loose circle in the center of the room. At the front of the room, their teacher appeared in the midst of reading a novel. A science fiction one judging from the spaceship and gun toting alien on the cover. At their entrance, the teacher looked up, waving at them all in friendly greeting before returning his attention to his novel.

_So that's Mr. Maro? _Gregory mused. Jesus had been fairly excited about Gregory taking this class and spoken in volumes about his respect for the Religious Studies teacher. From the conversation and the savior's high opinion of the man's scholarly background, Gregory had been expecting some grey haired, bearded philosopher, pouring over an ancient scholarly translation of the Talmud. He'd not been expecting a relatively young looking teacher, who apparently was busily trying to finish a chapter of some frivolous novel before the bell rang.

Gregory followed Butters and Tweek to the circle of chairs. Tweek and Butters sat down next to each other and with a smile Butters pointed to the seat beside him.

"You should sit here," Butters said as he pointed to the seat beside him. Then blushed at his own statement before stammering an explanation, "I m-mean, Tweek's boyfriend will wanna sit on the other side of him, so you can't sit by Tweek. So I figured you'd sit by me, unless you don't want to," Butters stumbled through the end of his explanation.

"Sitting here will be fine," Gregory said to forestall any more worry.

Once Gregory was seated, he started pulling out his papers. Tweek fumbled with his own notebook, dropping it to the floor as he tried to open it. As he picked it up, a paper drifted out and started floating away.

"Gah! My permission slip. Today's the last day to turn it in; if it gets ruined I'll get kicked out of class!" Tweek shouted as he jumped form his seat to chase the paper. Every time he got near the wind from his approach sent the paper floating further away. His run away fears were the only thing to keep up as he attempted pursuit, "Oh man! Craig will yell at the teacher and maybe get kicked out too. And well both be grounded…urgh...and it'll be my fault."

"Permission slip?" Gregory asked seeking an explanation for the twitchy boy's frantic behavior. Butters broke away from grinning at Tweek's antics to answer the question.

"Yeah we got them last week," Butters said as he pulled his own out and showed it to Gregory. "You can't take this class without a signed form from your parents. That's how they get around the whole separation of church an' school an' state."

Before Gregory could comment Tweek recovered his paper, only to shriek in horror when a nervous tick caused his tight grip on the paper to tear it slightly. He returned to his desk mournfully and began trying to fix the problem.

_They celebrate Christmas as a national holiday and put 'In God We Trust,' on everything. Then they turn around and say church and state are separate and that you need permission to talk about God? Worse they get offended if you even talk about any other religion at all, while insisting on tolerance? Mortals are so weird, _Gregory shook his head wonderingly at the strange inability of humanity to ever make up its mind. The countless gods and spirits seemed to get along just fine on a policy of indifference towards each other that their followers never seemed to grasp. While he mused, Gregory searched his own notebook, hoping Jesus had remembered that such a slip was required for the class.

He easily found the slip, tucked neatly into the text for the class, but unhappily discovered it was blank. This presented a fairly uncomfortable problem. He could always ask for an extension to turning it in and have the Madame sign it. But then the woman would undoubtedly use the occasion to satisfy her curiosity about his parents perhaps going as far as to ask if she could call them to get their permission. Technically he could ask Jesus, since the savior was the closest thing other than god to his legal guardian but who knows when he'd see him? And until he did he'd be out of the class. _Unless… I could sign for Jesus; he did give me power of proxy. It wouldn't really be a forgery. I just hope my angelic half lets me squeak by on that technicality._

While Gregory contemplated this, Tweek managed to turn the slight rip into a full on tear nearly dividing his permission slip in half. Butters offered a friendly pat on Tweek's shoulder which only caused the boy to give another start of surprise and finish the tear. Apologizing softly, Butters reached over and took the paper from Tweek before pulling out a Hello-Kitty tape dispenser. Carefully he repaired the damage while Tweek leaned over watching with an unreasonable amount of concern that would be more appropriate for a mother watching a doctor examine her sick child.

With a quick check to make sure that both Tweek and Butters were occupied, Gregory pulled out a pen and set it to the signature line. He was about to warily start the signature, unsure if his hand would object to the act of forging, when he realized he had no idea what Jesus' signature looked like. He held the pen in place staring in concentration at the paper as he pondered the question. He didn't immediately notice, but the second he'd placed the pen over the signature line, the ink started blotting into the paper. Gregory almost lifted the pen when he finally saw the stain, but he held it still when he realized that it wasn't spreading in a large black dot as ink usually did. Instead the ink stain remained thin and linear, curving away to one side only, spreading in flowing lines and loops from the point where the pen touched the paper. Abruptly it stopped and Gregory stared down at the paper, which now bore the graceful flowing signature, 'Jesus Christ,' on the dotted line.

_Well that answers a couple of questions, _Gregory thought as he carefully removed the pen and stared at it curiously. _It also raises quite a few more._

"There all better Tweek," Butters announced as he flourished the now repaired form.

"Thanks Butters," the frantic blonde responded. Butters offered the form back to Tweek who shrank from it in fear, "NO! Don't give it back; I'll just destroy it completely. Just…hold it till they're collected I'm sure I'll-GAH." A pair of dark blue arms draped themselves over Tweek's shoulders and the boy lost what little coherence he had. Fortunately his assailant had been expecting the response and held the boy firmly in place, minimizing the damage.

While the boy chuckled at Tweek fondly, Tweek alternated between glaring and shivering. Before Tweek could work up the courage to scold the boy, a dark blue thermos was set on his desk. Every emotion but relief vanished from his face as he pounced forward onto the thermos, ripping the cap off to take a deep sip.

After two long sips he finally greeted his captor, smiling in spite of his words.

"Craig! What were you thinking!? You almost killed me! What if I'd fallen backwards and your grip slipped and I cracked my head open?"

"Tweekers! Don't you have any faith in me? I'd never let you fall," Craig replied with a false bravado in his tone. "Besides," Craig said with a smirk, "I like it when you're twitchy. It gives me an excuse to keep holding you!"

A polite cough from the front of the room broke the moment.

"Mr. Tucker…need I remind you again about the school rules concerning public displays of affection?" their teacher reprimanded him in a bored manner.

"He looked like he was going to fall sir, just making sure he's got his balance back, " Craig smiled as he answered, not taking his eyes or his arms off the boy he was holding. As an afterthought he whipped the teacher off, but the smile didn't falter.

"Craig," the teacher replied in an exasperated tone, "you know I have no personal problems with your relationship, but I get enough angry phone calls about this class each year. I don't need accusations from parents that I'm allowing you to molest your fellow students on top of everything else."

Craig relinquished his grip, taking the seat beside his boyfriend with a carefree smirk before latching out and snagging one of Tweek's hands in his own. Before another protest could be launched, he nonchalantly explains his action, "Just checking his wrist for his heartbeat, he looks awfully pale." A devilish smirk crossed his face as he leaned closer to Tweek, "If he has a heart attack I might have to administer C.P.R."

Tweek certainly did look pale and that comment only caused the twitches to become more violent though it was undoubtedly Craig's attention causing the problem.

"I'm not gonna have a heart attack," Tweek defended himself. Unfortunately, a quick look from Craig started his twitches and shakes into overdrive, causing the teacher to stare at him in alarm.

Realizing there was no easy way to win the argument, the teacher surrendered before Craig instigated a more violent reaction in his boyfriend just to have an excuse to touch him further. With a voice laced with sarcasm Mr. Maro addressed Craig, "In your expert medical opinion Mr. Tucker, if I look the other way for hand holding can we forestall the need for any further intervention?"

"I can't make any promises…" Craig started before seeing an un-amused expression cross his teacher's face. With a shrug and a flip of the bird he accepted the compromise, "On second thought, as long as I keep track of his pulse I think he'll be ok. Till the class ends," Craig finished in a voice full of devilish promise that set Tweek twitching anew.

"Till the bell then," Mr. Maro agreed unhappily.

"Is he always like that?" Gregory asked shaking his head in disbelief at Craig's insubordinate behavior.

"Yeah," Butters' tone turned humorous, "Craig's aunt is the nurse and Tweeks already 'excitable,' so Craig gets away with an awful lot. Nice teachers like Mr. Maro won't really do anything but warn him, 'cause Tweek would freak out if Craig got sent to the office. You should see some of the stuff he tried to get away with last year. Always huggin' Tweek from behind and claimin' he was givin' the Heimlich cause he thought Tweek was gonna choke." Butters' frowned thoughtfully, "Of course when he did that, Tweek would start actually chokin' an' coughin' from surprise."

"Poor guy, I can't believe Craig would torment the kid like that," Gregory said disapprovingly.

"Aww he's not doin' it to be mean. Craig loves Tweek, he just has a strange kinda way of showin it," Butters defended.

"I sincerely doubt it's love," Gregory scoffed speaking from his own experience with the emotion. There was nothing in the warm, unflinching acceptance he'd felt from and for the Creator that would lead someone to behave violently or teasing. "If he really cared he certainly wouldn't treat Tweek like that."

"How do you know? Have you ever been in love?" Butters' eyes widened in apprehension at his own bold question.

"Well of cou-," abruptly the smallest of stabs twitched at the back of Gregory's neck and his reply stopped mid sentence at the tell tale warning of pain. _What? How was that a lie? _Gregory certainly had been in love and still was. Like every other blessed being in Heaven he was unflinchingly constant in his adoration of God. _What greater love could there be? Certainly nothing a couple of prepubescent kids could feel. All they'd be capable of was…ohhh…that._

Gregory flushed as he realized his error. Of course Butters wouldn't have been thinking about _real love._ The poor boy was referring to the other kind, the volatile alchemy of lust, affection, and dependence that mortals mistook for the unconditional acceptance that awaited them in Heaven.

Mistaking the look of pain on Gregory's face and the silence that followed, Butters reached across the desk to hold his hand sympathetically.

"Aww, gee. I'm awful sorry if I brought up a bad topic. If it's any consolation," the smaller boy's tone turned sad, "I've had a lot of trouble there too."

Watching Butters slump his shoulders, Gregory felt guilty for his crude thoughts towards mortal affections. Inferior as the emotions may be to what was waiting for them above, they were still clearly strong enough to cause a great deal of pain. He squeezed the small palm holding his own before patting Butters' shoulder comfortingly with his free hand.

At that exact moment the class door opened again and Gregory felt the familiar prickle between his shoulder blades of being watched. A feeling he thought had vanished with Wendy's departure. Wondering how she'd managed to change her class schedule so quickly, he braced himself for the determined curiosity burning in hazel irises as he turned to face the door. Much to his surprise, he found the piercing stare of a certain French boy instead. Gregory flinched as he considered the unpleasant turn of events; apparently he'd traded inquisitive amber for suspicious jades.

**

* * *

**

Keeping up with Kenny and the Mole kept Damien too occupied to think much about his morning so far. This was a good thing, at least for the safety of everyone around Damien. If he took the time to stop and consider the events of his morning he might start punching and kicking the students bumping into him, instead of trying to dodge past them. Or he might go back and turn Mr. Brahe into a fat human candle. Or he could hunt down and mangle that little spike-haired blonde in chemistry that had been whispering with Phillip.

Instead of doing any of those remarkably satisfying things, he was swerving and squeezing around a bunch of idiots to try and keep up with his friends who were somhow slipping through the halls as if they were empty rather than filled with dozens of students moving in all directions.

_Friends…_Yet another thing Damien had not yet had a chance to adjust to. Beyond all the the normal feelings of irritation and anger he'd had to choke back on today, was the unaccountable swarm of _other feelings._ Warm, content sensations that Damien only found in the very rare times he managed to slip away with his three headed pet, yet now seemed to be surging up at the damndest times for no other reason than a pat on the back from Kenny or when the Mole grabbed something dangerous from the death-prone blonde's hands. Or when Phillip smiled at him in astronomy.

_Phillip. _Abruptly Damien reeled back from a collision with some girl rushing by. _He's definitely not a topic to think about in a crowded hallway._

The small Brit was a mountain of conflicting issues all his own. Damien had a sinking feeling that figuring out what was going on there would take more time to work out than all of the other issues he'd had to deal with today combined.

Shaking the treacherous distraction from his thoughts, Damien dodged around a chatting pair of girls that didn't seem to realize that the middle of the hallway was a terrible place to stop and gossip. Up ahead a flash of telltale orange let him know he was still going the right way. He lost track for a second when he had to avoid a kid who was too busy checking his watch to see where he was going. When he looked up again he panicked, before seeing a familiar dark turtleneck. _Wait… the Mole got ahead of me? How are they moving so fast?_

Blaming his distracted thoughts Damien stopped just dodging obstacles as they came and tried to pick out clearer paths. With a turn of speed he managed to close the distance at last, when the two boys reached the door for their next class in room 422.

Damien saw his opening and dashed to the door, turning quickly to get in. The brief moment of satisfaction and pride in his accomplishment vanished abruptly when Damien collided with the unmoving forms of his two friends.

Damien rubbed his head as he glared at the backs of Kenny and the Mole neither of which seemed to have even registered the crash.

"Why in Hell did you guys stop right in the middle of the door?" Damien asked as he glowered.

When there was no immediate response, he pushed his way through; trying to get a look at whatever had stopped them. There wasn't anything remarkable to see, a few chairs arranged in a weird circle instead of normal and a couple of students already there. Craig, Damien recognized easily enough, especially when the dark haired boy whipped all three of them off in his form of pleasant greeting. The twitching ball of nerves beside him, Damien vaguely recognized from chemistry class. Judging by the grip Craig had on the boy's hand, he must be Tweek. Beside him; however, was that little pale kid that had been whispering with Phillip. Seeing the boy, Damien felt his expression turn a little feral, remembering the violence he'd wanted to inflict to get the boy to give up his seat in Chemistry. The boy met his gaze with a terrified squeak, before shivering and leaning towards yet another blonde in beige, sitting beside him. The boy he leaned towards draped a protective arm around him and met Damien's gaze unflinchingly. Damien dismissed the implied challenge from the last kid for the moment, far more amused at the reaction he was getting from the boy in pale blue. Right on cue, a very low, menacing growl caused the small boy to shudder.

Damien almost smirked at the fearful reaction from the boy before his pleasure faded to puzzlement. _Wait a second. I didn't growl._ Damien turned to look at his friends, realizing the sound had come from behind him. He turned to the perpetually angry Mole, assuming the threatening sound had originated there. To his complete surprise the Mole seemed more suspicious and considering than angry, whereas the clenched teeth and unhappy expression on Kenny's face gave no doubt as to who had let the growl slip free.

Damien had a lot of questions he very much wanted to ask at that moment, so of course, the bell rang.

**

* * *

**

The atmosphere in the room had gone from amused and light hearted to uncomfortably charged the second Gregory turned to look at the door. A flush had crossed his features the instant he'd locked eyes with Christophe, the memory of their last meeting reviving the strange mix of emotions the mercenary had stirred. He was so distracted by controlling that reaction that it took him a second to realize that there was a boy beside Christophe, a boy that was glaring angrily at him. As if that hadn't been enough a third kid had pushed through at that moment and the aura of menace in the room seemed to double. It didn't take an angel's soul to read the emotions in those red eyes. Anger, irritation, and arrogance. _I bet he's the local bully._

The reaction from Butters seemed to confirm Gregory's impression as the small blonde shivered in outright terror at the sight of the third boy. Surprising himself at how quickly his guardian angel half reacted, Gregory's arm tightened protectively, as he pulled Butters in to shield him from that fairly threatening gaze. Then someone growled and the expression of smugness and anger vanished into confusion. When the red-eyed boy in front turned to undoubtedly talk with his friends, Gregory wondered just what was going to come next. Thankfully the tense moment was defused by a blaring ring.

_Thank the Maker for that bell,_ Gregory thought with relief as all three boys broke from their huddle and headed towards the ring of seats. He wasn't quite sure what had just happened in that short span of time between looking at the door and the bell, but he was fairly certain he'd just made an enemy judging by the glare from the kid in orange who sat down next to Craig with a thud. _Possibly two_, he thought as the strange boy with red eyes sat down next to Kenny. Then the French mercenary sat down last, leaving only a single empty seat between himself and Gregory. Very thankful for that small buffer, Gregory looked away from the frank stare of speculation those green eyes leveled at him. Two new enemies and of course Christophe, _God alone knows if he's friend or foe._

Gregory did his best to ignore the unpleasant sensation of being watched, which was much worse now than when it had been just Wendy. He stared awkwardly at Butters to avoid looking to his right and possibly meeting three sets of eyes. Thus he jumped in surprise when the seat next to him shifted as the last chair was filled by the smiling Mr. Maro, who joined his ring of students.

"Well class, as I'm sure some of you have noticed, our group has grown by two new students," he began pleasantly. "Since that means a few new faces, I think it'd be best if we went around the circle and reintroduced ourselves." When awkward silence and a lack of volunteers greeted his statement, Mr. Maro sighed. "I suppose I'll have to start this off then. My name is Mr. Maro. To keep things on an even footing during our class debates, you may address me by my first name Virgil. Yes, I know it's an unusual name. You can blame that on my parents," he tossed his hands up defensively and finished with a self-depreciating smile. "I know I did when I got teased for it growing up. What can I say? Classical literature professors should never be allowed to pick the names of their children. My sister Beatrice whole-heartedly agrees," the last was said with a smirk for the snorts of amusement from his students.

With that Virgil waved at the student to his right. The mercenary grunted before speaking in a voice laced with anger, "Ze Mole." The teacher coughed a moment and Christophe looked up in irritation before muttering something unpleasant in French. With a sigh he continued in a dead pan monotone, "Christophe DeLorne."

With a nod from the teacher all eyes turned to the next boy one of the two whom Gregory did not know yet. "Damien Star," the boy volunteered, somehow managing to put even less emotion into it than Christophe had.

Gregory shivered in discomfort, yet found himself unsurprised at such the foreboding title. _Now that is a luckless name. His parents were worse at picking names than Mr. Maro's parents were. _Then again, considering how menacing and arrogant the boy seemed, perhaps his parents had picked the perfect name. Gregory stoked his courage back up by imagining the look of fear that would undoubtedly appear on the brat's face if he ever met the real Damien. Gregory was certain the undobutedly gigantic, clawed, flame-spewing, black-hearted son of satan would set this Damien running in terror to find a pair of dry pants.

Abruptly his attention returned to the room as the blonde in orange that had been glaring at him spoke, "Kenny McCormick."

_The Kenny McCormick?_ Gregory stared at the boy disbelievingly. _He looks nothing like his statue! I expected him to look more like a young Keanu Reeves. _Again Gregory regretted relinquishing his angelic senses. Flying over the town a few days ago he'd been able to identify Kenny through a building while passing by a hundred feet above him. Now thanks to his might-as-well-be-blind human eyes, he'd been in a staring contest a few feet away and not even known he was making enemies with the most infamous mortal, er…well immortal-mortal, in the world.

Gregory shivered at that revelation. Abruptly he reorganized his opinion of the trio. He knew Christophe could be a threat. But now the blonde had just jumped from harmless to more dangerous than the mercenary. All the concern Gregory had spared towards the red-eyed boy vanished as he now dismissed him as the least threatening of all three. Compared to his companions, this Damien was not even remotely worth worrying about.

**

* * *

**

"B-b-butters Stotch," the pale blonde gave his name before dropping his eyes back to the desk he'd been examining.

_Butters_, Damien did not like that name. Not at all. It was a stupid name. And the kid was obviously a total wimp. Damien could probably convince him to trade seats in chemistry just by walking up and demanding it. He was definitely not worth the time it'd take to beat him up. So why in hell did Damien want to do just that? Just because he was talking to Phillip? That made no sense at all. It certainly didn't explain why Damien felt the urge to show the kidup, preferably in front of a large audience, or at least with one British witness. And then there was this Butters' companion who was taking all the attention of Damien's friends, neither of whom had been unable to stop staring at him when they'd first come in.

"Gregory Thorne," the object of his examination said in a cool, cultured voice. Now here was someone who'd be worth the effort to beat up. The kid practically oozed smug self assurance that made Damien's fist clench a little in anticipation. It wasn't that Damien couldn't sympathize with arrogance, he felt similarly about himself. But he had a good reason; he technically was superior to the mortal rabble of South Park. This kid was just one more snotty teacher's pet judging from the proper little notebook and that preppy outfit. But was that all that was irritating Damien? It didn't seem to fit; Phillip was just as well organized and if anything dressed even peppier. No there was something else about that blonde that just made Damien's blood boil almost as much as seeing 'B-b-butters' whispering with Phillip had.

"Class now that you've all gotten acquainted again, if you would please pass in your permission slips?" 'Virgil,' said in a business like tone.

Abruptly the sounds of rustling papers reached Damien's ears and he reached for his own text wondering what they were talking about. Fortunately when he opened it a small neatly folded paper was already waiting, Lee Star's signature already on the paper in Penemue's archaic script. The paper joined the others going around the circle, until it reached Virgil. The teacher examined them briefly, stopping at one and staring in surprise at Gregory. With a shrug of his head he shuffled them and placed them into a folder before clasping his hands together and leaning forward on his desk.

"Before I cut loose and let you all start a proper forum, there are two rules that I expect you to follow during our class discussion. Beyond the standard school code which I know you will do your best to obey," he said with a hint of sarcasm. The sarcasm was possibly for Craig seeing as the dark haired boy chose that moment to whip Virgil off. Or perhaps Craig was just whipping him off for the hell of it; the kid seemed to be fond of that gesture. "The first rule is respect the speaker even if you don't respect the message. That means let someone else finish their statement before commenting and try to keep your own responses focused on the topic and not the presenter." Virgil paused a second before adopting a far sterner expression, "The second rule is new as of this year but extremely important. During these conversations you may get upset, it isn't always easy to keep calm during a debate and religion is always a delicate topic. No matter how upset you get," a finger flashed up warningly, "you will not resort to attacking your fellow classmates' sex, orientation, weight, appearance, ethnicity or religion."

A snort from next to Damien caused him to turn and examine Kenny. For the moment at least the blonde's irritation faded as he grinned and explainted to Damien in a whisper, "He had Kyle and Cartman in this class year. The stories about the arguments they had in this class are already legends."

Craig leaned over to add, "My aunt said that during the month they covered Judaism, Mr. Maro was coming in to the nurse's office every day with headaches. It's half the reason I took this class." Craig paused a second to look at the hand he was holding before grinning, "Tweek was the other half."

Kenny snorted in amusement at the confession about the headaches but Damien didn't get the joke. What was so stressful about a class debate? Wasn't that the point of this class?

Virgil heard the suppressed laughter and his expression turned stony, "I'm not kidding about this. I used to think this kind of thing didn't need to be stated, but after last year," Virgil reached up to rub the bridge of his nose, repressing distasteful memories. Whatever he was talking about, clearly the arguments hadn't been as amusing to the teacher as they had been to Kenny and Craig.

Lowering his hand and forcing a strained smile their teacher continued, "Anyway class that's not important because I'm sure this year will be much more interesting than last year. Now, usually we start with the more obscure religions first then move towards the big five as the year progresses, but I've decided to switch things up. Were going to start with Christianity," he waved away the groans that greeted that smirk. "I know it sounds boring to argue about the one that most of you have been learning about every Sunday; however, I promise you'll talk about things in this class you've never discussed in church. We aren't going to look at the 'what' of Christianity, but the 'why.'"

The only student to grasp what the teacher was saying was that snotty Gregory kid, who was already nodding his head. Everyone else just looked confused. A grimace crossed the teacher's face before he gave it another try.

"The purpose of religion is to teach and enforce a set of rules and behaviors on a society, can you think of some examples of how Christianity does that?" again blank faces stared back. "Ok let's try and work this down to a simpler level. In your own experience who, other than Father Maxi of course, is responsible for teaching and enforcing what you can and can't do?"

A shaky hand raised in the air. Virgil smiled at finally having obtained a reaction and motioned towards Tweek happily. "You don't have to raise your hand in this class during open discussion Tweek. Go ahead and say what's on your mind."

"Gah," Tweek retracted his hand the second all the eyes turned to him. He sputtered a second before Craig patted his hand and encouraged him to answer, "Uh…well…teachers…they tell us what we can and can't do."

"Very good answer Tweek," Virgil smiled encouragingly before continuing, "Can we think of any other examples? I'd prefer to show a little hubris and not start our first discussion by comparing teachers to Gods. "

"Ze cops," the Mole muttered just low enough to be audible.

"Well that's true they certainly enforce the rules. But let's try for something more general. I'm sure the rest of the class hasn't had any experience with being reprimanded by officer Barbrady." As soon as that statement left Virgil's lips, Kenny and Craig coughed awkwardly and started staring at their desks. Virgil grimaced uncomfortably at that revelation, before turning to the left side of the ring, hoping for salvation from one of the quieter and hopefully less criminal students.

"W-what about our moms and dads?" Butters offered tentatively.

"Perfect," an elated Virgil responded, "Parents are certainly an example everyone can relate to, pun intended."

While Kenny and the Mole groaned from either side, Damien tried to hide his uncomfortable flush. He couldn't very well object on the grounds that his parents hadn't done much to raise him seeing as both of his friends had seen Lee and Jen.

"So how do they enforce your behaviors?"

_By ignoring you and forcing a small army of disgraced angels to babysit you? _Damien bit back the sarcastic answer that was definitely not what the teacher was looking for. His expression must have shown that he was thinking something because Virgil turned to him expectantly.

"You have a suggestion to offer Damien?"

Damien scrambled for an answer, trying his hardest to remember anything the fat red sack of crap had ever done to remotely influence his behavior. The only time his father took an even vague interest in him was the last time he'd let him go to the surface, making sure Damien was prepared to call Jesus out for the fight. Damien dismissed that idea figuring that, 'my dad taught me how to rig a fight for money,' wasn't exactly a normal experience for a kid. Damien decided to go with using the Fallen for inspiration.

"Uh leading by example?" Damien thought of all the times he'd tried his hardest to impress his distant overseers by desperately attempting to mimic their unflinching perfection. Unfortunately, Kenny and Christophe were thinking of a different parental example and both started coughing with laughter.

"Dude, please….PLEASE tell me you don't want to be like your dad," Kenny whispered while grinning. "He dresses like Mike Brady, talks like him too. Your parents are lamer than a two legged dog."

"I didn't mean it like that," Damien whispered back mortified. Then he realized he couldn't very well explain what he did mean without bringing up a few things he wasn't allowed to talk about. With a groan Damien dropped his head to his desk, silently cursing Lee, Jen, Penemue, Satan…and the rest of Hell for good measure.

During their little conversation the class had moved on to discuss the various other ways parents enforced behavior. The only comment that drew a reaction as strong as Damien's had from his friends was an embarrassed confession from Butters about still being grounded on occasion. That stuttered comment earned stifled laughs from Craig and the Mole. Damien didn't quite get the joke, but would have laughed as well had he not been in the line of fire for a 'shut up jerk' look Kenny tossed the Mole. The French boy snorted and rolled his eyes, but he did stop laughing. Meanwhile the list of questions Damien wanted answered about his new friends kept on growing with every unexplained look the two tossed each other or the blondes on the other side of the circle.

His attention was so caught up in that musing that he ignored the conversation that his overseer had insisted might be enlightening. Not that he would have cared even if he had been listening. The only curiosity this class had piqued so far was about his friends, not about mortal ideology. Listening to a bunch of kids express inaccurate guesses about why people believed what they did was more a source of exasperation than educational to someone who knew the _real _how and why of faith.

Damien yawned, thoroughly bored with the discussion. Beside him Kenny poked him once, smirking in sympathy at how dull things were. Virgil must have noticed the yawn as well because he spoke up.

"Well class, we're going to move onto something more interesting now. Let's talk about the two concepts that Christianity uses as the carrot and the stick to motivate good behavior. Of course I'm referring to Heaven and Hell."

Damien grinned in anticipation for the first time since the bell. Finally things might get amusing. He couldn't wait to hear how stupidly wrong the descriptions of Hell were going to be.

Then Virgil said something that washed away all the amusement and replaced it with ice cold dread.

"I think this discussion will be particularly enlightening for this group of students. For the first time since I started teaching this class we are going to have more than just theories and stories to debate." The teacher tossed he tossed a knowing grin in the direction of Damien and his friends. "This time we'll have a unique viewpoint on Heaven and Hell to go by; we have students who have actually been there."

Damien couldn't hold back the flinch or the sudden nervous shudder. _How did he know?!_

**

* * *

**

Gregory was not impressed. From the conversation with the Jesus, he'd expected this class to reveal some startling insight into the ways of faith and mortals. So far all it was shaping up to be was a series of spoon fed lectures that were presented at a snail's pace so as not to lose anyone. Gregory sighed with boredom only to have that annoying prickle return between his shoulder blades.

_How did he even notice that sigh? The teacher's right next to me and didn't hear it._ Gregory didn't need to look up to know it was Christophe whose gaze had jumped back to him the second he'd let that telltale gust of air escape. Kenny had stopped staring fairly early on. In fact after Kenny had given his name, he'd stopped looking at Gregory's side of the room completely, his eyes never moving father around the circle than Craig or the teacher. Whenever Butters, Gregory, or Tweek spoke Kenny's gaze dropped to his desk or to share a look with Christophe.

When Christophe wasn't busy openly staring at Gregory that is. The untrusting mercenary was definitely the _he _responsible for the resurgent prickle of being watched. Every time Gregory so much as twitched or shifted he felt the invisible weight of two jade eyes return to him. And unlike Wendy, Christophe didn't bother looking away when Gregory responded to the sensation and looked up. No, Christophe just stared right back; his gaze filled with…well Gregory wasn't sure what it was. There was a hint of challenge in it, certainly. Suspicion too, Gregory was sure, since Christophe had all but accused him of causing the trouble so many years back. But it'd take a lot more perception than he had in human emotions to figure out just what else was hidden in that inscrutable poker face. Especially since every time they locked gazes Gregory felt a surge of heat in his face for some unknown reason and he ended up looking down in surrender.

Rather than repeat the performance again, Gregory steadfastly ignored the sensation till it faded. He kept his attention on his pad, jotting down notes as if fascinated by the childish concepts being discussed that philosophers he'd personally met had beaten to death centuries prior. He was so caught up in the pretedning to care about the notes that he barely registered the topic change by the teacher until he heard the teacher mumble something about Heaven and Hell.

Gregory tuned back into the discussion at that point, finally finding something that might actually be worth paying attention to. If nothing else it might be funny to hear what his classmates thought about Heaven and the angels in particular. He caught the tail end of what the teacher was saying.

"-a unique viewpoint on Heaven and Hell to go by, we have students who have actually been there."

Gregory's shoulders stiffened, his breath caught in his throat and panicked thoughts raced through his mind. _Oh god!? Did Jesus tell him? He won't actually tell everyone will he? _Gregory's right hand twitched as he wondered if it had been a mistake to sign the document with Christ's signature. Right on cue he felt the prickle return and looked up at Christophe reflexively. Inwardly Gregory groaned; as if the threat of having his cover blown wasn't enough, even if the teacher didn't give it all away with his next statement, Christophe had caught his reaction yet again. Not sure what was coming, Gregory looked up at their teacher with foreboding. _This isn't going to end well._


End file.
